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TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 


Tales  and  Sketches. 


By   HUGH    MILLER, 


AUTHOR   OF   "  THE  OLD   RED   SANDSTONE,"    ' '  MY   SCHOOLS   AND    SCHOOLMASTERS  " 
"THE   TESTIMONY  OF   THE   ROCKS,"   ETC. 


EDITED,    WITH     A     PREFACE,     BY 


MRS.    MILLER. 


>;*^ 


NEW     YORK: 
ROBERT   CARTER   AND   BROTHERS, 

530  Broadway. 
1882. 


PR 

M597t 


Moths  bg  %  same  §."%*• 


-wJ^OO- 


THE  TESTIMONY  OF  THE  ROCKS. 

THE  FOOTPRINTS  OF  THE  CREATOR. 

THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  BETSEY. 

FIRST  IMPRESSIONS   OF  ENGLAND  AND  ITS  PEOPLE 

THE    OLD    RED    SANDSTONE. 

MY    SCHOOLS   AND    SCHOOLMASTERS. 

THE  HEADSHIP  OF  CHRIST. 

SKETCH-BOOK  OF  POPULAR  GEOLOGY. 

ESSAYS, 

HISTORICAL,    BIOGRAPHICAL,    POLITICAL,    SOCIAL, 
LITERARY,   AND  SCIENTIFIC. 


100  i. 


PREFACE. 


The  following  "  Tales  and  Sketches "  were  written  at  an  early 
period  of  the  author's  career,  during  the  first  years  of  his  married 
life,  before  he  had  attempted  to  carry  any  part  of  the  world  on  his 
shoulders  in  the  shape  of  a  public  newspaper,  and  found  it  by  no 
means  a  comfortable  burden.  Yet  possibly  the  period  earlier  still, 
when  he  produced  his  "  Scenes  and  Legends,"  had  been  more  favor- 
able for  a  kind  of  writing  which  required  in  any  measure  the  exer- 
cise of  the  imagination.  The  change  to  him  was  very  great,  from  a 
life  of  constant  employment  in  the  open  air,  amid  the  sights  and 
sounds  of  nature,  to  "  the  teasing  monotony  of  one  which  tasked  his 
intellectual  powers  without  exercising  them."  Hence,  partly,  it  may 
be  imagined,  the  intensity  of  his  sympathy  with  the  poet  Ferguson. 
The  greater  number  of  these  Tales  were  composed  literally  over  the 
midnight  lamp,  after  returning  late  in  the  evening  from  a  long  day's 
work  over  the  ledger  and  the  balance-sheet.     Tired  though  he  was, 

his  mind  could  not  stagnate  —  he  must  write.     I  do  not  mention  these 
1* 


VI  PREFACE. 

circumstances  at  all  by  way  of  apology.  It  has  struck  me,  in- 
deed, that  the  Tales  are  nearly  all  of  a  pensive  or  tragical  cast,  and 
that  in  congenial  circumstances  they  might  have  had  a  more  joyous 
and  elastic  tone,  in  keeping  with  a  healthier  condition  of  the  ner- 
vous system.  Yet  their  defects  must  undoubtedly  belong  to  the 
mind  of  their  author.  I  am  far  from  being  under  the  delusion  that 
he  was,  or  was  ever  destined  to  be,  a  Walter  Scott  or  Charles 
Dickens.  The  faculties  of  plot  and  drama,  which  find  their  scope 
in  the  story  and  the  novel,  were  among  the  weakest,  instead  of  the 
strongest,  of  his  powers.  Yet  I  am  deceived  if  the  lovers  and  stu- 
dents of  Hugh  Miller's  Works  will  not  find  in  the  "  Tales  and 
Sketches  "  some  matter  of  special  interest.  In  the  first  three  there 
are,  I  think,  glimpses  into  his  own  inner  life,  such  as  he,  with  most 
men  of  reserved  and  dignified  character,  would  choose  rather  to 
personify  in  another  than  to  make  a  parade  of  in  their  own  person, 
when  coming  forward  avowedly  to  write  of  themselves.  And,  then, 
if  he  could  have  held  a  conversation  with  Robert  Burns,  so  that  all 
the  world  might  hear,  I  think  there  are  few  who  would  not  have 
listened  with  some  curiosity.  In  his  "  Recollections  of  Burns  "  we 
have  his  own  side  of  such  conversation ;  for  it  seems  evident  that  it 
is  himself  that  he  has  set  to  travelling  and  talking  in  the  person  of 
Mr.  Lindsay. 

But  of  Burns's  share  in  the  dialogue  the  reader  is  the  best  judge. 
Some  may  hold  that  he  is  too  like  Hugh  Miller  himself,  —  too  phil- 
osophic in  idea,  and  too  pure  in  sentiment.    In  regard  to  this,  we 


PREFACE.  VII 

can  only  remind  such  that  Burns's  prose  was  not  like  his  poetry, 
nor  his  ideal  like  his  actual  life. 

Unquestionably  my  husband  had  a  very  strong  sympathy  with 
many  points  in  the  character  of  Burns.  His  thorough  integrity  ; 
his  noble  independence,  which  disdained  to  place  his  honest  opinions 
at  the  mercy  of  any  man  or  set  of  men ;  his  refusal  to  barter  his 
avowal  of  the  worth  and  dignity  of  man  for  the  smiles  and  patron- 
age of  the  great,  even  after  he  had  tasted  the  sweets  of  their  society, 
which  is  a  very  different  matter  from  such  avowal  before  that  time, 
if  any  one  will  fairly  think  of  it,  —  all  this,  with  the  acknowledged 
sovereignty  of  the  greater  genius,  made  an  irresistible  bond  of  broth- 
erhood between  Miller  and  Burns.  But  to  the  grosser  traits  of  the 
poet's  character  my  husband's  eyes  were  perfectly  open  ;  and  grieved 
indeed  should  I  be  if  it  could  for  a  moment  be  supposed  that  he  lent 
the  weight  of  his  own  purer  moral  character  to  the  failings,  and 
worse  than  failings,  of  the  other.  Over  these  he  mourned,  he 
grieved.  I  believe  he  would  at  any  time  have  given  the  life  of  liis 
body  for  the  life  of  his  brother's  soul.  Above  all,  he  deplored  that 
the  all-prevailing  power  of  Christian  love  was  never  brought  to 
bear  on  the  heart  of  this  greatest  of  Scotland's  sons.  If  Thomas 
Chalmers  had  been  in  tin-  place  of  Rnssell,  who  knows  wliat  might 
have  been  V  lint,  doubtless,  God  in  his  providence  had  wise  pur- 
poses to  serve.  It  is  often  by  such  instruments  that  heseouruvs  and 
purifies  his  church.  For  let  us  not  forget,  that  scenes  such  as  are 
depicted  in  the  "  Holy  Fair,"  however  painful  to  our  better  feelings, 


yin 


PREFACE. 


were  strictly  and  literally  true.  This  I  have  myself  heard  from  an 
eye-witness,  who  could  not  have  been  swayed  by  any  leanings  to- 
wards the  anti-puritan  side  ;  and,  doubtless,  many  others  are  aware 
of  testimony  on  the  same  side  of  equal  weight. 

We  may  hope  that  the  time  is  passing  away  when  the  more  excep- 
tionable parts  of  Burns's  character  and  writings  are  capable  of 
working  mischief,  at  least  among  the  higher  and  middle  classes.  It 
is  cause  of  thankfulness  that  in  regard  to  such,  and  with  him  as  with 
others,  there  is  a  sort  of  purifying  process  going  on,  which  leaves  the 
higher  and  finer  elements  of  genius  to  float  buoyantly,  and  fulfil 
their  own  destiny  in  the  universal  plan,  while  the  grosser  are  left  to 
sink  like  lead  in  the  mighty  waters.  Thus  it  is  in  those  portions  of 
society  already  refined  and  elevated.  But  there  is  yet  a  portion  of 
the  lower  strata  where  midnight  orgies  continue  to  prevail,  and 
where  every  idea  of  pleasure  is  connected  with  libertinism  and  the 
bottle  ;  and  there  the  worst  productions  of  Burns  are  no  doubt  still 
rife,  and  working  as  a  deadly  poison.  Even  to  a  superior  class  of 
working-men,  who  are  halting  between  two  opinions,  there  is  danger 
from  the  very  mixture  of  good  and  evil  in  the  character  and  writings 
of  the  poet.     They  cannot  forget  that  he  who  wrote 

"  The  cock  may  craw,  the  day  may  daw, 
Yet  still  we  '11  taste  the  barley  bree," 

wrote  likewise  the  immortal  song, 

"A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that"; 
and  they  determine,  or  are  in  danger  of  determining,  to  follow  the  ob- 


PREFACE.  I2C 

ject  of  their  worship  with  no  halting  step.  Doubtless  political  creed 
and  the  accidents  of  birth  still  color  the  individual  estimate  of  Burns 
and  his  writings.  It  is  but  of  late  that  we  have  seen  society  torn,  on 
occasion  of  the  centenary  of  the  poet,  by  conflicting  opinion  as  to 
the  propriety  of  observing  it ;  and  many  would  fain  have  it  supposed 
that  the  religious  and  anti-religious  world  were  ranged  on  opposite 
sides.  But  it  was  not  so.  There  were  thoroughly  good  and  religious 
men,  self-made,  who  could  not  forget  that  Burns  had  been  the  cham- 
pion of  their  order,  and  had  helped  to  win  for  them  respect  by  the 
power  of  his  genius  ;  while  there  were  others  —  religious  men  of  old 
family  —  who  could  remember  nothing  but  his  faults.  I  remember 
spending  one  or  two  evenings  about  that  time  in  the  society  of  a 
well-born,  earnestly  religious,  and  highly  estimable  gentleman,  who 
reprobated  Burns,  and  scoffed  at  the  idea  that  a  man  could  be  a 
man  for  a'  that.  He  might  belong  to  a  limited  class ;  for  well  I 
know  that  among  peers  there  are  as  ardent  admirers  of  Burns  as 
among  peasants.  All  I  would  say  is,  that  even  religious  feelings 
may  take  edge  and  bitterness  from  other  causes.  But  to  the  other 
class  —  those  who  from  loyalty  and  gratitude  are  apt  to  follow  Burns 
too  far  —  well  I  know  that  my  husband  would  have  said,  "  Receive 
all  genius  as  the  gift  of  God,  but  never  let  it  be  to  you  as  God.  It 
ought  never  to  supersede  the  exercise  of  your  own  moral  sense, 
nor  can  it  ever  take  the  place  of  the  only  infallible  guide,  the  Word 
of  God." 

But  I  beg  the  reader's  pardon  for  digressing  thus,  when  I  ought  to 


X  PREFACE. 

be  pursuing  the  proper  business  of  a  preface,  which  is,  to  state  any 
explanatory  circumstances  that  may  be  necessary  in  connection  with 
the  work  in  hand. 

The  "  Recollections  of  Ferguson  "  are  exquisitely  painful  —  so 
much  so  that  I  would  fain  have  begun  with  something  brighter ;  but 
these  two  contributions  being  the  most  important,  and  likewise  the 
first  in  order  of  a  series,  they  seemed  to  fall  into  the  beginning  as 
their  natural  place.  I  have  gone  over  the  Life  of  Ferguson,  which 
the  reader  may  do  for  himself,  to  see  whether  there  is  any  exagger- 
ation in  the  "  Recollections."  I  find  them  all  perfectly  faithful  to 
the  facts.  The  neglected  bard,  the  stone  cell,  the  straw  pallet,  the 
stone  paid  for  by  a  brother  bard  out  of  his  own  straitened  means 
are  not  flattering  to  the  "  Embro'  Gentry";  but  amid  a  great  deal 
of  flattery,  a  little  truth  is  worth  remembering.  On  the  other  hand 
it  rejoices  one  to  think  that  Ferguson's  death-bed,  on  the  heaven- 
ward side,  was  not  dark.  The  returning  reason,  the  comforts  of  the 
Word  of  Life,  are  glimpses  of  God's  providence  and  grace  that  show 
gloriously  amid  the  otherwise  outer  darkness  of  those  depths. 

The  sort  of  literature  of  superstition  revived  or  retained  in  "  The 
Lykewake,"  there  are  a  great  many  good  people  who  think  the 
world  would  be  better  without. 

It  chanced  to  me  some  three  years  ago,  when  residing  in  a  sea- 
bathing village,  and  sitting  one  day  on  a  green  turf-bank  overlook- 
ing the  sea,  to  hear  a  conversation  in  which  this  point  was  brought 
very  prominently  forward.     A  party  consisting  of  a   number  of 


PREFACE.  XI 

young  people,  accompanied  by  their  papa,  a  young  French  lady, 
who  was  either  governess  or  friend,  and  a  gentleman  in  the  garb  of 
a  clergyman,  either  friend  or  tutor,  seated  themselves  very  near  me ; 
and  it  was  proposed  by  the  elder  gentleman  that  a  series  of  stories 
should  be  told  for  the  amusement  and  edification  of  the  young  people. 
A  set  of  stories  and  anecdotes  were  accordingly  begun,  and  very 
pleasingly  told,  chiefly  by  the  clergyman,  friend  or  tutor.  Among 
others  was  a  fairy  tale  entitled  "  Green  Sleeves,"  to  which  the  name 
of  Hugh  Miller  was  appended,  and  which  evoked  great  applause 
from  the  younger  members  of  the  party,  but  regarding  which  the 
verdict  of  papa,  very  emphatically  delivered,  was,  "  /  approve  of 
faries  neither  in  green  sleeves  nor  white  sleeves.  However,  " —  after 
a  pause,  during  which  he  seemed  to  be  revolving  in  his  mind  any 
possible  use  for  the  like  absurdities,  —  "  they  may  serve  to  show  us 
the  blessings  of  the  more  enlightened  times  in  which  we  live,  when 
schools  for  the  young,  and  sciences  for  all  ages,  have  banished  such 
things  from  the  world."  So,  with  this  utilitarian  view  of  the  subject 
let  us  rest  satisfied,  unless  we  are  of  those  who,  feeling  that  the  hu- 
man mind  is  a  harp  of  many  strings,  believe  that  it  is  none  the 
worse  for  having  the  music  of  even  its  minor  chords  awakened  at 
times  by  a  skilful  hand. 

T  am  unable  to  say  whether  "  Bill  Whytc  "  be  a  real  story,  ever 
narrated  by  a  bona  fide  tinker  of  the  name,  or  no.  I  am  rather 
inclined  to  think  that  it  is  not,  because  I  recognize  in  it  several 
incidents  drawn  from  "  Uncle  Sandy's"  Experiences  in  Egypt,  such 


XII  PREFACE. 

as  the  hovering  of  the  flight  of  birds,  scared  and  terrified,  over  the 
smoke  and  noise  of  battle,  the  encampment  in  the  midst  of  a  host  of 
Turks'  bones,  etc. 

With  the  "  Young  Surgeon  "  I  was  myself  acquainted.  It  is  a 
sketch  strictly  true. 

"  The  Story  of  the  Scotch  Merchant  of  the  Eighteenth  Century," 
which  also  is  a  true  story,  was  written  originally  at  the  request  of 
a  near  relative  of  Mr.  Forsyth,  for  private  circulation  among  a 
few  friends,  and  is  now  for  the  first  time  given  to  the  public  by  the 
kind  consent  of  the  surviving  relatives. 


CONTENTS. 


I. 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  FERGUSON. 

PAOB 

Chapter        I. —The  Fellow-Student IT 

Chapter       II. —The  Convivial  Party 24 

Chapter  Til. —  Life's  Shadowy  Morning        ......  30 

Chapter     IV. —A  Surprise  and  Joyful  News 39 

Chapter       V.  —  An  Interior  View 44 

Chapter     VI.  — Gathering  Clouds  .        .  63 

Chapter    VII. — The  Retreat 59 

Chapter  VIII. —Tue  Final  Scene 02 


II. 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF   BURNS. 

Chapter     I. —Tin    •  m-.ckmal  Stranger 67 

Csaptkr    IF.—  The  Trio  —  A  Scottish  Scene 78 

Chapter  III.— Burns  and  Mary  Campbell 86 

2 


XIV  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Chapter     IV. —  The  Home  and  the  Father  of  Burks     ...  94 

Chapter       V. —Burns  and  the' Church 103 

Chapter      VI. —An  Evening  at  JIossgiel 108 

Chapter    VII.  —  The  Poet  appears 115 

Chapter  VIII. —The  Last  Interview     ........  121 


III. 

THE  SALMON-FISHER  OF  UDOLL. 

Chapter    I.  —  The  Fisherman,  William  Stewart,  Lillias      .       .    128 
Chapter  II. —The  Sequel 144 


IV. 

THE  WIDOW  OF  DUNSKAITH. 

Chapter    I.  —  The  Cavern  Scene 155 

Chapter  II.  — Helen's  Vision 164 


THE  LYKEWAKE. 

Chapter    I.  —  Introduction 175 

Chapter  II. — The  Story  op  Elspat  M'Culloch  .  ...       179 


CONTENTS.  XV 

PAGE 

Chapter   m.  —  Story  op  Donald  Gair 185 

Chapter    IV. —  The  Doomed  Eider 191 

Chapter      V.  —  Story  of  Fairburn's  Ghost 196 

Chapter    VI.  — The  Land  Factor 201 

Chapter  VII. —  The  Mealmonger 206 


VI. 

BILL   WHITE. 

Chapter    I.  — Early  History,  etc 210 

Chapter  II.  — The  Denouement 233 


VII. 

THE  YOUNG  SURGEON; 
Or,  The  Power  of  Religion  .  244 


VIII. 

GEORGE  ROSS,  THE  SCOTCH  AGENT; 
Or,  The  Fortunes  of  a  Reformer 262 


XVI  CONTENTS. 

IX. 

M'CULLOCH  THE  MECHANICIAN; 


PAGE 

Or,  The  Story  of  a  Farmer's  Boy 274 


X. 

THE  SCOTCH  MERCHANT   OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY. 

Chapter        I.  —  Early  Advantages 283 

Chapter       II.  — Enterprise  and  Thrift      ......  289 

Chapter     III.  —  Manners  of  the  Times 297 

Chapter     IV. —  State  of  Society 303 

Chapter       V. — The  Kelp-burners 310 

Chapter     VI.  —  Shipping  and  Sailors  .......  317 

Chapter    VII.  —  Personal  Traits 323 

Chapter  VIII.  —  Schemes  of  Improvement 331 

Chapter     IX. —Sports  and  Jokes 336 

Chapter       X.  — Hospitality 342 

Chapter     XI. —Changes  and  Improvements 348 

Chapter    XII.  —  The  Closing  Scenes 360 


TALES  AND  SKETCHES. 


i. 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  FERGUSON. 

CHAPTER  I. 


Of  Ferguson,  the  bauld  and  slee. 

Burns. 


I  have,  I  believe,  as  little  of  the  egotist  in  my  compo- 
sition as  most  men ;  nor  would  I  deem  the  story  of  my 
life,  though  by  no  means  unvaried  by  incident,  of  interest 
enough  to  repay  the  trouble  of  either  writing  or  perusing 
it  were  it  the  story  of  my  one  life  only  ;  but,  though  an 
obscure  man  myself,  I  have  been  singularly  fortunate  in 
my  friends.  The  party-colored  tissue  of  my  recollec- 
tions is  strangely  interwoven,  if  I  may  so  speak,  with 
pieces  of  the  domestic  history  of  men  whose  names  have 
become  as  familiar  to  our  ears  as  that  of  our  country 
itself;  ami  I  have  been  induced  to  struggle  with  the 
delicacy  which  renders  one  unwilling  to  speak  much  of 
one's  sell',  and  to  overcome  the  dread  of  exertion  natural 
to  a  period  of  life  greatly  advanced,  through  a  desire  of 
preserving  to  my  count!)  men  a  few  notices,  which  would 
otherwise  be  lost  to  them,  of  two  of  their  greatest  favor- 
2* 


18  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

ites.  I  could  once  reckon  among  my  dearest  and  most 
familiar  friends,  Robert  Burns  and  Robert  Ferguson. 

It  is  now  rather  more  than  sixty  years  since  I  studied 
for  a  few  weeks  at  the  University  of  St.  Andrews.  I  was 
the  son  of  very  poor  parents,  who  resided  in  a  seaport 
town  on  the  west  coast  of  Scotland.  My  father  was  a 
house-carpenter,  —  a  quiet,  serious  man,  of  industrious 
habits  and  great  simplicity  of  character,  but  miserably 
depressed  in  his  circumstances  through  a  sickly  habit  of 
body.  My  mother  was  a  warm-hearted,  excellent  woman, 
endowed  with  no  ordinary  share  of  shrewd  good  sense 
and  sound  feeling,  and  indefatigable  in  her  exertions  for 
my  father  and  the  family.  I  was  taught  to  read,  at  a  very 
early  age,  by  an  old  woman  in  the  neighborhood,  —  such 
a  person  as  Shenstone  describes  in  his  "  Schoolmistress," 
—  and,  being  naturally  of  a  reflective  turn,  I  had  begun, 
long  ere  I  had  attained  my  tenth  yeai',  to  derive  almost 
my  sole  amusement  from  books.  I  read  incessantly;  and, 
after  exhausting  the  shelves  of  all  the  neighbors,  and 
reading  every  variety  of  work  that  fell  in  my  way,  —  from 
the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress"  of  Bunyan,  and  the  "  Gospel 
Sonnets"  of  Erskine,  to  a  "  Treatise  on  Fortification"  by 
Vauban,  and  the  "  History  of  the  Heavens"  by  the  Abbe 
Pluche,  —  I  would  have  pined  away  for  lack  of  my  ac- 
customed exercise,  had  not  a  benevolent  baronet  in  the 
neighborhood,  for  whom  my  father  occasionally  wrought, 
taken  a  fancy  to  me,  and  thrown  open  to  my  perusal  a 
large  and  well-selected  library.  Nor  did  his  kindness 
terminate  until,  after  having  secured  to  me  all  of  learning 
that  the  parish  afforded,  he  had  settled  me,  now  in  my 
seventeenth  year,  at  the  University. 

Youth  is  the  season  of  warm  friendships  and  romantic 
wishes  and  hopes.     We  say  of  the  child   in  its  first   at- 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  FERGUSON.  19 

tempts  to  totter  along  the  wall,  or  when  it  has  first 
learned  to  rise  beside  its  mother's  knee,  that  it  is  yet  too 
weak  to  stand  alone ;  and  we  may  employ  the  same  lan- 
guage in  describing  a  young  and  ardent  mind.  It  is,  like 
the  child,  too  weak  to  stand  alone,  and  anxiously  seeks 
out  some  kindred  mind  on  which  to  lean.  I  had  had  my 
intimates  at  school,  who,  though  of  no  very  superior  cast, 
had  served  me,  if  I  may  so  speak,  as  resting-places  when 
wearied  with  my  studies,  or  when  I  had  exhausted  my 
lighter  reading ;  and  now,  at  St.  Andrews,  where  I  knew 
no  one,  I  began  to  experience  the  unhappiness  of  an  un- 
satisfied sociality.  My  school -fellows  were  mostly  stiff", 
illiterate  lads,  who,  with  a  little  bad  Latin  and  worse 
Greek,  plumed  themselves  mightily  on  their  scholarship, 
and  I  had  little  inducement  to  form  any  intimacies  among 
them  ;  for  of  all  men  the  ignorant  scholar  is  the  least 
amusing.  Among  the  students  of  the  upper  classes,  how- 
ever, there  was  at  least  one  individual  with  whom  I 
longed  to  be  acquainted.  He  was  apparently  much  about 
my  own  age,  rather  below  than  above  the  middle  size, 
and  rather  delicately  than  robustly  formed:  but  I  have 
rarely  seer  a  more  elegant  figure  or  more  interesting  face. 
His  features  were  small,  and  there  was  what  might  per- 
haps be  deemed  a  too  feminine  delicacy  in  the  while 
contour',  but  there  was  a  broad  and  very  high  expansion 
of  forehead,  which,  even  in  those  days,  when  we  were  ac- 
quainted with  only  the  phrenology  taught  by  Plato,  might 
be  regarded  as  the  index  of  a  capacious  and  powerful 
mind;  ana  the  brilliant  light  of  his  large  blaJv  e 
seemed  to  give  earnest  of  its  activity. 

"Who.  in  tne  name  of  wonder,  is  that?"  I  inquired 
of  a  class-fellow,  as  this  interesting-looking  young  man 
pa  sec  me  for  the  first  time. 


20  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

"  A  clever  but  very  unsettled  fellow  from  Edinburgh," 
replied  the  lad  ;  "  a  capital  linguist,  for  he  gained  our 
first  bursary  three  years  ago ;  but  our  Professor  says  he 
is  certain  he  will  never  do  any  good.  He  cares  nothing 
for  the  company  of  scholars  like  himself,  and  employs 
himself  —  though  he  excels,  I  believe,  in  English  com- 
position —  in  writing  vulgar  Scotch  rhymes,  like  Allan 
Ramsay.     His  name  is  Robert  Ferguson." 

I  felt  from  this  moment  a  strong  desire  to  rank  among 
the  friends  of  one  who  cared  nothing  for  the  company  of 
such  men  as  my  class-fellow,  and  who,  though  acquainted 
with  the  literature  of  England  and  Rome,  could  dwell 
with  interest  on  the  simple  poetry  of  his  native  country. 

There  is  no  place  in  the  neighborhood  of  St.  Andrews 
where  a  leisure  hour  may  be  spent  more  agreeably  than 
among  the  ruins  of  the  cathedral.  I  was  not  slow  in 
discovering  the  eligibility  s  -f  the  spot,  and  it  soon  be- 
came one  of  my  favorite  haunts.  One  evening,  a  few 
weeks  after  I  had  entered  on  my  course  at  college,  1  had 
seated  myself  among  the  ruins,  m  a  little  ivied  nook 
fronting  the  setting  sun.  and  was  deeply  engaged  with 
the  melancholy  jaques  in  the  forest  of  Ardennes,  when, 
on  hearing  a  light  footstep.;  1  looked  up,  and  saw  the  Ed- 
inburgh student,  whose  appearance  nad  so  interested  me, 
not  foul  yaids  away.  He  was  busied  with  his  penci1.  and 
his  tatlets,  and  muttering,  as  he  went,  in  a  half-audible 
voice,  what,  from  the  inflection  of  the  tones,  seemed  to  be 
verse.  On  seeing  me,  n<j  started,  and  apologizing  in  a 
few  hurried  but  courteous  words  for  what  he  termed  the 
involuntary  intrusion,  would  have  passed,  but,  on  my 
rising  ana  stepping  up  to  him.    ne  stood. 

u  I  am  afraid,  Mr.  Ferguson,"  }  said,  'tis  I  who  owe  you 
an  apology  \  the  ruins  have  long  been  yours,  and  I  am  but 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    FERGUSON.  21 

an  intruder.  But  you  must  pardon  me  ;  I  have  often 
heard  of  them  in  the  west,  where  they  are  hallowed,  even 
more  than  they  are  here,  from  their  connection  with  the 
history  of  some  of  our  noblest  Reformers  ;  and,  besides, 
I  see  no  place  in  the  neighborhood  where  Shakspeare  can 
be  read  to  more  advantage." 

"Ah,"  said  he,  taking  the  volume  out  of  my  hand, 
"a  reader  of  Shakspeare  and  an  admirer  of  Knox!  I 
question  whether  the  heresiarch  and  the  poet  had  much 
in  common." 

"Nay,  now,  Mr.  Ferguson,"  I  replied,  "you  are  too 
true  a  Scot  to  question  that.  They  had  much,  very  much, 
in  common.  Knox  was  no  rude  Jack  Cade,  but  a  great 
and  powerful-minded  man  ;  decidedly  as  much  so  as  any 
of  the  noble  conceptions  of  the  dramatist,  his  Caesars, 
Brutuses,  or  Othellos.  Buchanan  could  have  told  you 
that  he  had  even  much  of  the  spirit  of  the  poet  in  him, 
and  wanted  only  the  art.  And  just  remember  how  Milton 
speaks  of  him  in  his  '  Areopagitica.'  Had  the  poet  of 
'Paradise  Lost'  thought  regarding  him  as  it  has  become 
fashionable  to  think  and  speak  now,  he  would  hardly  have 
apostrophized  him  as  Knox,  the  reformer  of  a  nation, — 
a  great  man  animated  by  th<   Spirit  of  God? 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  the  young  man ;  "  I  am  little  ac- 
quainted with  the  prose  writings  of  Milton,  and  have, 
indeed,  picked  up  most  of  my  opinions  of  Knox  at  second- 
hand. But  I  have  read  his  merry  account  of  the  murder 
of  Beaton,  and  found  nothing  to  alter  my  preconceived 
notions  of  him  from  either  the  matter  or  manner  of  the 
narrative.  Xow  that  I  think  of  it,  however,  my  opinion 
of  Bacon  would  be  no  very  adequate  one  were  it  formed 
solely  from  the  extract  of  his  history  of  Henry  VII.  given 


22  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

by  Karnes  in  his  late  publication.  Will  you  not  extend 
your  walk  ?  " 

We  quitted  the  ruins  together,  and  went  sauntering 
along  the  shore.  There  was  a  rich  sunset  glow  on  the 
water,  and  the  hills  that  rise  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
Frith  stretched  their  undulating  line  of  azure  under  a 
gorgeous  canopy  of  crimson  and  gold.  My  companion 
pointed  to  the  scene.  "These  glorious  clouds,"  he  said, 
"  are  but  wreaths  of  vapor,  and  these  lovely  hills  accu- 
mulations of  earth  and  stone.  And  it  is  thus  with  all  the 
past,  —  with  the  past  of  our  own  little  histories,  that 
borrows  so  much  of  its  golden  beauty  from  the  medium 
through  which  we  survey  it ;  with  the  past  too  of  all 
history.  There  is  poetry  in  the  remote ;  the  bleak  hill 
seems  a  darker  firmament,  and  the  chill  wreath  of  vapor  a 
river  of  fire.  And  you,  Sir,  seem  to  have  contemplated 
the  history  of  our  stern  Reformers  through  this  poetical 
medium,  till  you  forget  that  the  poetry  was  not  in  them, 
but  in  that  through  which  you  surveyed  them." 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Ferguson,"  I  replied,  "  you  must  permit  me 
to  make  a  distinction.  I  acquiesce  fully  in  the  justice  of 
your  remark  :  the  analogy,  too,  is  nice  and  striking ;  but 
I  would  fain  carry  it  a  little  further.  Every  eye  can  see 
the  beauty  of  the  remote  ;  but  there. is  beauty  in  the  near, 
an  interest  at  least,  which  every  eye  cannot  see.  Each 
of  the  thousand  little  plants  that  spring  up  at  our  feet  has 
an  interest  and  beauty  to  the  botanist ;  the  mineralogist 
would  find  something  to  engage  him  in  every  little  stone. 
And  it  is  thus  with  the  poetry  of  life  ;  all  have  a  sense  of 
it  in  the  remote  and  the  distant,  but  it  is  only  the  men 
who  stand  high  in  the  art,  its  men  of  profound  science, 
that  can  discover  it  in  the  near.  The  mediocre  poet  shares 
but  the  commoner  gift,  and  so  he  seeks  his  themes  in  ages 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF   FERGUSON.  23 

or  countries  far  removed  from  his  own  ;  whilst  the  man  of 
nobler  powers,  knowing  that  all  nature  is  instinct  with 
poetry,  seeks  and  finds  it  in  the  men  and  scenes  in  his 
immediate  neighborhood.     As  to  our  Reformers"  — 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  the  young  poet;  "the  remark  strikes 
me,  and,  ere  we  lose  it  in  something  else,  I  must  furnish 
you  with  an  illustration.  There  is  an  acquaintance  of 
mine,  a  lad  much  about  my  own  age,  greatly  addicted  to 
the  study  of  poetry.  He  has  been  making  verses  all  his 
life-loner:  he  besran  ere  he  had  learned  to  write  them  even; 
and  his  judgment  has  been  gradually  overgrowing  his 
earlier  compositions,  as  you  see  the  advancing  tide  rising 
on  the  beach,  and  obliterating  the  prints  on  the  sand. 
Now,  I  have  observed  that  in  all  his  earlier  compositions 
he  went  far  from  home  ;  he  could  not  attempt  a  pastoral 
without  first  transporting  himself  to  the  vales  of  Arcadia, 
or  an  ode  to  Pity  or  Hope  without  losing  the  warm,  living 
sentiment  in  the  dead,  cold  personification  of  the  Greek. 
The  Hope  and  Pity  he  addressed  were,  not  the  undying 
attendants  of  human  nature,  but  the  shadowy  spectres  of 
a  remote  age.  Now,  however,  I  feel  that  a  change  has 
come  over  me.  I  seek  for  poetry  among  the  fields  and 
cottages  of  my  own  land.  I  —  a  —  a  —  the  friend  of 
whom  I  speak  —  But  I  interrupted  your  remark  on  the 
Reformers." 

"  Nay,"  I  replied,  "  if  you  go  on  so,  I  would  much 
rather  listen  than  speak.  I  only  meant  to  say  that  the 
Knoxea  and  Melvilles  of  our  country  have  been  robbed  of 
the  admiration  and  sympathy  of  many  a  kindred  spirit,  by 
the  strangely  erroneous  notions  that  have  been  abroad 
irding  them  for  at  least  the  last  two  ages.  Knox,  I 
am  convinced,  would  have  been  as  great  as  Jeremy  Taylor, 
if  not  even  greater." 


24  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

We  sauntered  along  the  shore  till  the  evening  had 
darkened  into  night,  lost  in  an  agreeable  interchange  of 
thought.  "Ah!"  at  length  exclaimed  my  companion,  "I 
had  almost  forgotten  my  engagement,  Mr.  Lindsay ;  but 
it  must  not  part  us.  You  are  a  stranger  here,  and  I  must 
introduce  you  to  some  of  my  acquaintance.  There  are  a 
few  of  us  —  choice  spirits,  of  course  —  who  meet  every 
Saturday  evening  at  John  Hogg's  ;  and  I  must  just  bring 
you  to  see  them.  There  may  be  much  less  wit  than  mirth 
among  us  ;  but  you  will  find  us  all  sober,  when  at  the 
gayest ;  and  old  John  will  be  quite  a  study  for  you." 


CHAPTER  II. 

Say,  ye  red  gowns,  that  aften  here 
Hae  toasted  cakes  to  Katie's  beer, 
Gin  e'er  thir  days  hae  had  their  peer, 

Sae  blythe,  sae  daft! 
Ye'll  ne'er  again  in  life's  career 

Sit  half  sae  saft. 

Elegy  on  John  Hogg. 

We  returned  to  town  ;  and,  after  threading  a  few  of 
the  narrower  lanes,  entered  by  a  low  door  into  a  long 
dark  room,  dimly  lighted  by  a  fire.  A  tall  thin  woman 
was  employed  in  skinning  a  bundle  of  dried  fish  at  a  table 
in  a  corner. 

"Where's  the  gudeman,  Kate  ?  "  said  my  companion, 
changing  the  sweet  pure  English  in  which  he  had  hitherto 
spoken  for  his  mother  tongue. 

"John's  ben  in  the  spence,"  replied  the  woman.   "Little 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF   FEltGUSON.  25 


« 


Andrew,  the  wratch,  has  been  raakin'  a  totum  wi'  his 
faither's  a'e  razor ;  an'  the  puir  man's  trying  to  shave 
himsel'   yonder,  an'   girnan   like  a  sheep's    head   on   the 


tantrs." 


"  O  the  wratch !  the  ill-deedie  wratch !  "  said  John, 
stalking  into  the  room  in  a  towering  passion,  his  face 
covered  with  suds  and  scratches,  —  "I  might  as  weel 
shave  mysel'  wi'  a  mussel  shillet.  Rob  Ferguson,  man,  is 
that  you  ?  " 

"  Wearie  warld,  John,"  said  the  poet,  "  for  a'  oor  phi- 
losophy." 

"  Philosophy !  —  it's  but  a  snare,  Rab,  — just  vanity  an' 
vexation  o'  speerit,  as  Solomon  says.  An'  isna  it  clear 
heterodox  besides?  Ye  study  an'  study  till  your  brains 
gang  about  like  a  whirligig;  an'  then,  like  bairns  in  a  boat 
that  see  the  land  sailin',  ye  think  it's  the  solid  yearth  that's 
turnin'  rouu'.  An'  this  ye  ca'  philosophy ;  as  if  David 
hadna  tauld  us  that  the  warld  sits  coshly  on  the  waters, 
an'  canna  be  moved." 

"Hoot,  John,"  rejoined  my  companion;  "it's  no  me, 
but  Jamie  Brown,  that  differs  wi'  you  on  thae  matters. 
I'm  a  Hoggonian,  ye  ken.  The  auld  Jews  were,  doubt!' 
gran'  Christians  ;  an'  wherefore  no  gude  philosophers  too  ? 
But  it  was  cruel  o'  you  to  unkennel  me  this  mornin'  afore 
six,  an'  I  up  sae  lang  at  my  studies  the  nicht  afore." 

"  x\h,  Rob,  Rob!"  said  John,  —  "studying  in  Tarn 
Dun's  kirk.     Ye'll  be  a  minister,  like  a'  the  lave." 

"Mindin'  fast,  John,"  rejoined  the  poet.  "I  was  in 
your  kirk  on  Sabbath  last,  hearing  worthy  Mr.  Corkindale. 
Whatever  else  he  may  hae  to  fear,  he's  in  nae  danger  a' 
^ thinking  his  ain  thoughts,'  honest  man." 

"In  oor  kirk!"  said  John;  "ye're  dune,  then,  wi'  pre- 
centin'   in  yer  ain  ;  an'   troth,  nae   wonder.     What  could 
3 


26  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 


• 


hae  possessed  ye  to  gie  up  the  puir  chield's  name  i'  the 
pj  lyer,  an'  him  sittin'  at  yer  lug?" 

I  was  unacquainted  with  the  circumstance  to  which  he 
alluded,  and  requested  an  explanation.  '*0h,  ye  see,"  said 
John,  "Rob,  amang  a'  the  ither  gifts  that  he  misguides, 
has  the  gift  o'  a  sweet  voice  ;  an'  naething  less  would  ser' 
some  o'  oor  professors  than  to  hae  him  for  their  precentor. 
Thev  micht  as  weel  hae  thocht  o'  an  orsran,  —  it  wad  be 
just  as  devout;  but  the  soun's  everything  now,  laddie,  ye 
ken,  an'  the  heart  naething.  Weel,  Rob,  as  ye  may  think, 
was  less  than  pleased  wi'  the  job,  an'  tauld  them  he  could 
whistle  better  than  sing ;  but  it  wasna  that  they  wanted, 
and  sae  it  behoved  him  to  tak'  his  seat  in  the  box.  An' 
lest  the  folk  should.be  no  pleased  wi'  a'e  key  to  a'e  tune, 
he  gied  them.,  for  the  first  twa  or  three  days,  a  hale  bunch 
to  each ;  an'  there  was  never  sic  singing  in  St.  Andrews 
afore.  Weel,  but  for  a'  that,  it  behoved  him  still  to  pre- 
cent,  though  he  has  got  rid  o'  it  at  last ;  for  what  did  he 
do  twa  Sabbaths  agane,  but  put  up  drunken  Tarn  Moffat's 
name  in  the  prayer,  —  the  very  chield  that  was  sittin'  at 
his  elbow,  though  the  minister  couldna  see  him.  An' 
when  the  puir  stibbler  was  prayin'  for  the  reprobate  as 
weel's  he  could,  a'e  half  o'  the  kirk  was  needcessitated  to 
come  oot,  that  they  micht  keep  decent,  an'  the  ither 
half  to   swallow  their   pocket-napkins.      But  what   think 


ve" 


"  Hoot,  John,  now  leave  oot  the  moral,"  said  the  poet. 
"  Here's  a'  the  lads." 

Half-a-dozen  young  students  entered  as  he  spoke  ;  and, 
after  a  hearty  greeting,  and  when  he  had  introduced  me 
to  them  one  by  one,  as  a  choice  fellow  of  immense  reading, 
the  door  was  barred,  and  we  sat  down  to  half-a-dozen  of 
home-brewed,  and  a  huge   platter   of  dried  fish.      There 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  FERGUSON.  27 

was  much  mirth,  and  no  little  humor.  Ferguson  sat  at 
the  head  of  the  table,  and  old  John  Hogg  at  the  foot. 
I  thought  of  Eastcheap,  and  the  revels  of  Prince  Henry ; 
but  our  Falstafi"  was  an  old  Scotch  Seceder,  and  our 
Prince  a  gifted  young  fellow,  who  owed  all  his  influence 
over  his  fellows  to  the  force  of  his  genius  alone. 

"  Prythee,  Hall,"  I  said,  "  let  us  drink  to  Sir  John." 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  the  poet,  "  with  all  my  heart.  Not 
quite  so  fine  a  fellow,  though,  'bating  his  Scotch  honesty. 
Half  Sir  John's  genius  would  have  served  for  an  epic 
poet,  —  half  his  courage  for  a  hero." 

"  His  coinage  !  "  exclaimed  one  of  the  lads. 

"  Yes,  Willie,  his  courage,  man.  Do  you  think  a 
coward  could  have  run  away  with  half  the  coolness  ? 
With  a  tithe  of  the  courage  necessary  for  such  a  retreat, 
a  man  would  have  stood  and  fought  till  he  died.  Sir 
John  must  have  been  a  fine  fellow  in  his  youth." 

"In  mony  a  droll  way  may  a  man  fa'  on  the  drap 
drink,"  remarked  John;  "an'  meikle  ill,  dootless,  does  it 
do  in  takin'  aff  the  edge  o'  the  speerit,  —  the  mair  if  the 
edge  be  a  fine  razor  edge,  an'  no  the  edge  o'  a  whittle. 
I  mind,  about  fifty  years  ago,  when  I  was  a  slip  o'  a 
callant,"  — 

"  Losh,  John  !  "  exclaimed  one  of  the  lads,  "  hae  ye  been 
fechtin  wi'  the  cats?     Sic  a  scrapit  fiice!  " 

"Wheesht,"  said  Ferguson;  "we  owe  the  illustration 
to  thai  ;  but  dinna  interrupt  the  story." 

"  Fifty  years  ago,  when  I  was  a  slip  o'  a  callant,"  con- 
tinued John,  "unco  curious,  an'  fond  o'  kennin  everything, 
as  callants  will  be,"  — 

"  Hoot,  John,"  said  one  of  the  students,  interrupting 
him,   "  can    ye  no  cut    short,  man  ?     Pob    promised    last 


28  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

Saturday  to  gie  us,  '  Fie,  let  us  a'  to  the  Bridal/  an'  ye  see 
the  ale  an'  the  nicht's  baith  wearin'  dune." 

"  The  soug,  Rob,  the  song ! "  exclaimed  half-a-dozen 
voices  at  once ;  and  John's  story  was  lost  in  the  clamor. 

"Nay,  now,"  said  the  good-natured  poet,  "that's  less 
than  kind;  the  auld  man's  stories  are  aye  worth  the  hear- 
ing, an'  he  can  relish  the  auld-warld  fisher  song  wi'  the 
best  o'  ye.     But  we  maun  hae  the  story  yet." 

He  struck  up  the  old  Scotch  ditty,  "  Fie,  let  us  a'  to 
the  Bridal,"  which  he  sung  with  great  power  and  bril- 
liancy ;  for  his  voice  was  a  richly-modulated  one,  and 
there  was  a  fulness  of  meaning  imparted  to  the  words 
which  wonderfully  heightened  the  effect.  "  How  strange 
it  is,"  he  remarked  to  me  when  he  had  finished,  "  that  our 
English  neighbors  deny  us  humor!  The  songs  of  no 
country  equal  our  Scotch  ones  in  that  quality.  Are  you 
acquainted  with  '  The  Gudewife  of  Auchtermuchty  ?  '  " 

"  Well,"  I  replied  ;  "  but  so  are  not  the  English.  It 
strikes  me  that,  with  the  exception  of  Smollett's  novels, 
all  our  Scotch  humor  is  locked  up  in  Our  native  tongue. 
~No  man  can  employ  in  works  of  humor  any  language  of 
which  he  is  not  a  thorough  master ;  and  few  of  our 
Scotch  writers,  with  all  their  elegance,  have  attained  the 
necessary  command  of  that  colloquial  English  which  Ad- 
dison and  Swift  employed  when  they  were  merry." 

"A  braw  redd  delivery,"   said   John,  addressing  me. 
"  Are  ye  gaun  to  be  a  minister  too  ?  " 
"Not  quite  sure  yet,"  I  replied. 

"Ah,"  rejoined  the  old  man,  "  'twas  better  for  the  Kirk 
when  the  minister  just  made  himsel'  ready  for  it,  an'  then 
waited  till  he  kent  whether  it  wanted  him.  There's 
young  Bob  Ferguson  beside  you,"  — 

"  Setting  oot  for  the  Kirk,"  said  the  young  poet,  inter- 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  FERGUSON.  29 

rupting  him,  "  an'  yet  di'inkin'  ale  on  Saturday  at  e'en  wi' 
old  John  Hogg." 

"  Weel,  weel,  laddie,  it's  easier  for  the  best  o'  us  to  find 
fault  wi'  ithers  than  to  mend  oorsels.  Ye  have  the  head, 
onyhow;  but  Jamie  Brown  tells  me  it's  a  doctor  ye're 
gaun  to  be,  after  a'." 

"  Nonsense,  John  Hogg ;  I  wonder  how  a  man  o'  your 
standing  "  — 

"Nonsense,  I  grant  you,"  said  one  of  the  students; 
"  but  true  enough  for  a'  that,  Bob.  Ye  see,  John,  Bob  an' 
I  were  at  the  Kind's  Muirs  last  Saturday,  and  ca'ed  at  the 
pendicle,  in  the  passing,  for  a  cup  o'  whey,  when  the  gude- 
wiie  tell't  us  there  was  ane  o'  the  callants,  who  had 
broken  into  the  milk-house  twa  nichts  afore,  lying  ill  o'  a 
6urfeit.  '  Dangerous  case,'  said  Bob  ;  '  but  let  me  see  him. 
I  have  studied  to  small  purpose  if  I  know  nothing  o'  med- 
icine, my  good  woman.'  Weel,  the  woman  was  just  glad 
enough  to  bring  him  to  the  bed-side ;  an'  no  wonder :  ye 
never  saw  a  wiser  phiz  in  your  lives,  —  Dr.  Dumpie's  was 
naething  till't ;  an',  after  he  had  sucked  the  head  o'  his 
stick  for  ten  minutes,  an'  fund  the  loon's  pulse,  an'  asked 
mair  questions  than  the  gudewife  liked  to  answer,  he 
prescribed.  But,  losh  !  sic  a  prescription  !  A  day's  fasting 
an'  twa  ladles  o'  nettle  kail  was  the  gist  o't  ;  but  then 
there  went  mair  Latin  to  the  tail  o'  that  than  oor  neebour 
the  doctor  ever  had  to  lose." 

But  I  dwell  too  long  on  the  conversation  of  this  even- 
ing. I  feel,  however,  a  deep  interest  in  recalling  it  to 
memory.  The  education  of  Ferguson  was  of  a  twofold 
character:  he  studied  in  the  schools,  and  among  the 
people  ;  but  it  was  in  the  latter  tract  alone  that  lie  ac- 
quired  the  materials  of  all  his  better  poetry;  ami  I  feel  as 
if,  for  at  least  one  brief  evening,  I  was  admitted  to  the  priv- 

3* 


30  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

ileges  of  a  class-fellow,  and  sat  with  him  on  the  same  form 
The  company  broke  up  a  little  after  ten  ;  and  I  did  not 
again  hear  of  John  Hogg  till  I  read  his  elegy,  about  four 
years  after,  among  the  poems  of  my  friend.  It  is  by  no 
means  one  of  the  happiest  jneces  in  the  volume,  nor,  it 
strikes  me,  highly  characteristic ;  but  I  have  often  perused 
it  with  interest  very  independent  of  its  merits. 


CHAPTER    III. 

But  he  is  weak;  —  both  man  and  boy 
Has  been  an  idler  in  the  land. 

Wordsworth. 

I  was  attempting  to  listen,  on  the  evening  of  the  fol- 
lowing Sunday,  to  a  dull,  listless  discourse,  —  one  of  the 
discourses  so  common  at  this  period,  in  which  there  was 
fine  writing  without  genius,  and  fine  religion  without 
Christianity, — when  a  person  who  had  just  taken  his 
place  beside  me  tapped  me  on  the  shoulder,  and  thrust  a 
letter  into  my  hand.  It  was  my  newly-acquired  friend  of 
the  previous  evening ;  and  we  shook  hands  heartily  under 
the  pew. 

"  That  letter  has  just  been  handed  me  by  an  acquaint- 
ance from  your  part  of  the  country,"  he  whispered  ;  "  I 
trust  it  contains  nothing  unpleasant." 

I  raised  it  to  the  light ;  and,  on  ascertaining  that  it  was 
sealed  and  edged  with  black,  rose  and  quitted  the  church, 
followed  by  my  friend.  It  intimated,  in  two  brief  lines, 
that   my  patron,  the  baronet,  had   been  killed   by  a  fall 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  FERGUSON.  31 

from  his  horse  a  few  evenings  before  ;  and  that,  dying 
intestate,  the  allowance  which  had  hitherto  enabled  me  to 
prosecute  my  studies  necessarily  dropped.  I  crumpled  up 
the  paper  in  my  hand. 

"  You  have  learned  something  very  unpleasant, "  said 
Ferguson.  "  Pardon  me,  I  have  no  wish  to  intrude  ; 
but,  if  at  all  agreeable,  I  would  fain  spend  the  evening 
with  you." 

My  heart  filled,  and,  grasping  his  hand,  I  briefly  inti- 
mated the  purport  of  my  communication  ;  and  we  walked 
out  together  in  the  direction  of  the  ruins. 

"  It  is  perhaps  as  hard,  Mr.  Ferguson,"  I  said,  "  to  fall 
from  one's  hopes  as  from  the  place  to  which  they  pointed. 
I  was  ambitious,  —  too  ambitious  it  may  be, —  to  rise  from 
that  level  on  which  man  acts  the  part  of  a  machine, 
and  tasks  merely  his  body,  to  that  higher  level  on  which 
he  performs  the  part  of  a  rational  creature,  and  employs 
only  his  mind.  But  that  ambition  need  influence  me  no 
longer.  My  poor  mother,  too,  —  I  had  trusted  to  be  of 
use  to  her." 

"Ah!  my  friend,"  said  Ferguson,  "I  can  tell  you  of  a 
case  quite  as  hopeless  as  your  own  —  perhaps  more  so. 
But  it  will  make  you  deem  my  sympathy  the  result  of 
mere  selfishness.  In  scarce  any  respect  do  our  circum- 
stances differ." 

We  had  reached  the  ruins.  The  evening  was  calm  and 
mild  as  when  I  had  walked  out  on  the  preceding  one  ; 
but  the  hour  was  earlier,  and  the  sun  hung  higher  over 
the  hill.  A  newly-formed  grave  occupied  the  level  spot 
in  front  of  the  little  ivied  corner. 

"Let  us  seat  ourselves  here,"  said  my  companion,  "  and 
I  will  tell  you  a  story,  —  I  am  afraid  .1  rather  tame  one; 
for  there  is  nothing  of  adventure  in  it,  and  nothing  of 


32  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

incident ;  but  it  may  at  least  show  you  that  I  am  not  un- 
fitted to  be  your  friend.  It  is  now  nearly  two  years  since 
I  lost  my  father.  He  was  no  common  man,  —  common  nei- 
ther in  intellect  nor  in  sentiment,  —  but,  though  he  once 
fondly  hoped  it  should  be  otherwise,  —  for  in  early  youth 
he  indulged  in  all  the  dreams  of  the  poet,  —  he  now  fills  a 
grave  as  nameless  as  the  one  before  us.  He  was  a  native 
of  Aberdeenshire,  but  held  lately  an  inferior  situation  in 
the  office  of  the  British  Linen  Company  in  Edinburgh, 
where  I  was  born.  Ever  since  I  remember  him,  he  had 
awakened  too  fully  to  the  realities  of  life,  and  they 
pressed  too  hard  on  his  spirits  to  leave  him  space  for  the 
indulgence  of  his  earlier  fancies  ;  but  he  could  dream  for 
his  children,  though  not  for  himself;  or,  as  I  should  per- 
haps rather  say,  his  children  fell  heir  to  all  his  more  ju- 
venile hopes  of  fortune  and  influence  and  space  in  the 
world's  eye  ;  and,  for  himself,  he  indulged  in  hopes  of  a 
later  growth  and  firmer  texture,  which  pointed  from  the 
present  scene  of  things  to  the  future.  I  have  an  only 
brother,  my  senior  by  several  years,  a  lad  of  much  en- 
ergy, both  physical  and  mental ;  in  brief,  one  of  those 
mixtures  of  reflection  and  activity  which  seemed  best 
formed  for  rising  in  the  world.  My  father  deemed  him 
most  fitted  for  commerce,  and  had  influence  enough  to 
get  him  introduced  into  the  counting-house  of  a  respect- 
able Edinburgh  merchant.  I  was  always  of  a  graver 
turn, — in  part,  perhaps,  the  effect  of  less  robust  health, — . 
and  me  he  intended  for  the  church.  I  have  been  a 
dreamer,  Mr.  Lindsay,  from  my  earliest  years,  —  prone  to 
melancholy,  and  fond  of  books  and  of  solitude ;  and  the 
peculiarities  of  this  temperament  the  sanguine  old  man, 
though  no  mean  judge  of  character,  had  mistaken  for  a 
serious  and    reflective    disposition.     You   are    acquainted 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  FERGUSON.  33 

with  literature,  and  know  something,  from  books  at  least, 
of  the  lives  of  literary  men.  Judge,  then,  of  his  prospect 
of  usefulness  in  any  profession,  who  has  lived  ever  since 
he  knew  himself  among  the  poets.  My  hopes  from  my 
earliest  years  have  been  hopes  of  celebrity  as  a  writer; 
not  of  wealth,  or  of  influence,  or  of  accomplishing  any 
of  the  thousand  aims  which  furnish  the  great  bulk  of  man- 
kind with  motives.  You  will  laugh  at  me.  There  is 
something  so  emphatically  shadowy  and  unreal  in  the 
object  of  this  ambition,  that  even  the  full  attainment  of  it 
provokes  a  smile.     For  who  does  not  know 

How  vain  that  second  life  in  others'  breath,  — 
The  estate  which  wits  inherit  after  death ! 

And  what  can  be  more  fraught  with  the  ludicrous  than  a 
union  of  this  shadowy  ambition  with  mediocre  parts  and 
attainments  ?     But  I  digress. 

"  It  is  now  rather  more  than  three  years  since  I  entered 
the  classes  here.  I  competed  for  a  bursary,  and  was  for- 
tunate enough  to  secure  one.  Believe  me,  Mr.  Lindsay,  I 
am  little  ambitious  of  the  fame  of  mere  scholarship,  and 
yet  I  cannot  express  to  you  the  triumph  of  that  day.  I 
had  seen  my  poor  father  laboring  far,  far  beyond  his 
strength,  for  my  brother  and  myself, — closely  engaged 
during  the  day  with  his  duties  in  the  bank,  and  copying 
at  night  in  a  lawyer's  office.  I  had  seen,  with  a  throbbing 
heart,  his  tall  wasted  frame  becoming  tremulous  and  bent, 
and  the  gray  hair  thinning  on  his  temples  ;  and  now  I  felt 
that  I  could  ease  him  of  at  least  part  of  the  burden.  In 
the  excitement  of  the  moment,  I  could  hope  that  I  was 
destined  to  rise  in  the  world,  —  to  gain  a  name  in  it,  and 
something  more.     You  know  how  a  slight  success  grows 


34  TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

in  importance  when  we  can  deem  it  the  earnest  of  future 
good  fortune.  I  met,  too,  with  a  kind  and  influential 
friend  in  one  of  the  professors,  the  late  Dr.  Wilkie,  —  alas! 
good,  benevolent  man  !  you  may  see  his  tomb  yonder 
beside  the  wall ;  and  on  my  return  from  St.  Andrews  at 
the  close  of  the  session,  I  found  my  father  on  his  death- 
bed. My  brother  Henry,  who  had  been  unfortunate,  and, 
I  am  afraid,  something  worse,  had  quitted  the  counting- 
house,  and  entered  aboard  of  a  man-of-war  as  a  common 
sailor ;  and  the  poor  old  man,  whose  heart  had  been  bound 
up  in  him,  never  held  up  his  head  after. 

"On  the  evening  of  my  father's  funeral  I  could  have 
lain  down  and  died.  I  never  before  felt  how  thoroughly 
I  am  unfitted  for  the  world,  how  totally  I  want  strength. 
My  father,  I  have  said,  had  intended  me  for  the 
church  ;  and  in  my  progress  onward  from  class  to  class, 
and  from  school  to  college,  I  had  thought  but  little  of 
each  particular  step  as  it  engaged  me  for  the  time,  and 
nothing  of  the  ultimate  objects  to  which  it  led.  All  my 
more  vigorous  aspirations  were  directed  to  a  remote  fu- 
ture and  an  unsubstantial  shadow.  But  I  had  witnessed 
beside  my  father's  bed  what  had  led  me  seriously  to 
reflect  on  the  ostensible  aim  for  which  I  lived  and  stud- 
ied ;  and  the  more  carefully  I  weighed  myself  in  the  bal- 
ance, the  more  did  I  find  myself  wanting.  You  have 
heard  of  Mr.  Brown  of  the  Secession,  the  author  of  the 
'  Dictionary  of  the  Bible.'  He  was  an  old  acquaintance 
of  my  father's,  and,  on  hearing  of  his  illness,  had  come  all 
the  way  from  Haddington  to  see  him.  I  felt,  for  the  first 
time,  as,  kneeling  beside  his  bed,  I  heard  my  father's 
breathings  becoming  every  moment  shorter  and  more 
difficult,  and  listened  to  the  pruyers  of  the  clergyman, 
that  I  had  no  business  in  the  church.     And  thus  I  still 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    FERGUSON".  35 

continue  to  feel.  'Twere  an  easy  matter  to  produce  such 
things  as  pass  for  sermons  among  us,  and  to  go  respecta- 
bly enough  through  the  mere  routine  of  the  profession  ; 
but  I  cannot  help  feeling  that,  though  I  might  do  all  this 
and  more,  my  duty  as  a  clergyman  would  be  still  left 
undone.  I  want  singleness  of  aim,  —  I  want  earnestness 
of  heart.  I  cannot  teach  men  effectually  how  to  live  well; 
I  cannot  show  them,  with  aught  of  confidence,  how  they 
may  die  safe.  I  cannot  enter  the  church  without  acting 
the  part  of  a  hypocrite ;  and  the  miserable  part  of  a  hyp- 
ocrite it  shall  never  be  mine  to  act.  Heaven  help  me ! 
I  am  too  little  of  a  practical  moralist  myself  to  attempt 
teaching  morals  to  others. 

"But  I  must  conclude  my  story,  if  story  it  may  be 
called.  I  saw  my  poor  mother  and  my  little  sister 
deprived,  by  my  father's  death,  of  their  sole  stay, 
and  strove  to  exert  myself  in  their  behalf.  In  the  day- 
time I  copied  in  a  lawyer's  office;  my  nights  were  spent 
among  the  poets.  You  will  deem  it  the  very  madness  of 
vanity,  Mr.  Lindsay,  but  I  could  not  live  without  my 
dreams  of  literary  eminence.  I  felt  that  life  would  be  a 
blank  waste  without  them;  and  I  feel  so  still.  Do  not 
laugh  at  my  weakness,  when  I  say  I  would  rather  live  in 
the  memory  of  my  country  than  enjoy  her  fairest  lands, — 
that  I  dread  a  nameless  grave  many  times  more  than  the 
grave  itself.  But  I  am  afraid  the  life  of  the  literary  aspi- 
rant is  rarely  a  happy  one;  and  I,  alas!  am  one  of  the 
weakest  of  the  class.  It  is  of  importance  that  the  means 
of  living  be  not  disjoined  from  the  end  for  which  Ave  live  ; 
and  I  feel  that  in  my  case  the  disunion  is  complete.  The 
wants  and  evils  of  life  are  around  me  ;  but  the  energies 
through  which  those  should  be  provided  for,  and  these 
warded  off,  are  otherwise  employed.     I  am    like    a   man 


36  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

pressing  onward  through  a  hot  and  bloody  fight,  his 
breast  open  to  every  blow,  and  tremblingly  alive  to 
the  sense  of  injury  and  the  feeling  of  pain,  but  totally 
unprepared  either  to  attack  or  defend.  And  then  those 
miserable  depressions  of  spirit,  to  which  all  men  who 
draw  largely  on  their  imagination  are  so  subject,  and  that 
wavering  irregularity  of  effort  which  seems  so  unavoid- 
ably the  effect  of  pursuing  a  distant  and  doubtful  aim, 
and  which  proves  so  hostile  to  the  formation  of  every  bet- 
ter habit,  —  alas!  to  a  steady  morality  itself.  But  I  weary 
you,  Mr.  Lindsay ;  besides,  my  story  is  told.  I  am  groping 
onward,  I  know  not  whither ;  and  in  a  few  months  hence, 
when  my  last  session  shall  have  closed,  I  shall  be  exactly 
where  you  are  at  present." 

He  ceased  speaking,  and  there  was  a  pause  of  several 
minutes.  I  felt  soothed  and  gratified.  There  was  a 
sweet  melancholy  music  in  the  tones  of  his  voice  that 
sunk  to  my  very  heart ;  and  the  confidence  he  reposed  in 
me  flattered  my  pride.  "  How  was  it,"  I  at  length  said, 
"  that  you  were  the  gayest  in  the  party  of  last  night  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  can  better  answer  you,"  he  re- 
plied, "than  by  telling  you  a  singular  dream  which  I  had 
about  the  time  of  my  father's  death.  I  dreamed  that  I 
had  suddenly  quitted  the  world,  and  was  journeying,  by  a 
long  and  dreary  passage,  to  the  place  of  final  punishment. 
A  blue,  dismal  light  glimmered  along  the  lower  wall  of 
the  vault,  and  from  the  darkness  above,  where  there 
flickered  a  thousand  undefined  shapes,  —  things  without 
form  or  outline, — I  could  hear  deeply-drawn  sighs,  and 
long  hollow  groans,  and  convulsive  sobbings,  and  the  pro- 
longed moanings  of  an  unceasing  anguish.  I  was  aware, 
however,  though  I  know  not  how,  that  these  were  but  the 
expressions  of  a  lesser  misery,  and  that  the  seats  of  se- 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF   FERGUSON.  37 

verer  torment  were  still  before  me.  I  went  on  and  on,  and 
the  vault  widened;  and  the  light  increased  and  the  sounds 
changed.  There  were  loud  laughters  and  low  mutterings, 
in  the  tone  of  ridicule ;  and  shouts  of  triumph  -and  exulta- 
tion ;  and,  in  brief,  all  the  thousand  mingled  tones  of  a 
gay  and  joyous  revel.  Can  these,  I  exclaimed,  be  the 
sounds  of  misery  when  at  the  deepest  ?  '  Bethink  thee,' 
said  a  shadowy  form  beside  me,  —  'bethink  thee  if  it  be 
so  on  earth.'  And  as  I  remembered  that  it  was  so,  and 
bethought  me  of  the  mad  revels  of  shipwrecked  seamen 
and  of  plague-stricken  cities,  I  awoke.  But  on  this  sub- 
ject you  must  spare  me." 

'•  Forgive  me,"  I  said  ;  "  to-morrow  I  leave  college,  and 
not  with  the  less  reluctance  that  I  must  part  from  you. 
But  I  shall  yet  find  you  occupying  a  place  among  the 
literati  of  our  country,  and  shall  remember  with  pride 
that  you  were  my  friend/' 

He  sighed  deeply.  KMy  hopes  rise  and  fall  with  my 
spirits,"  he  said  ;  "  and  to-night  I  am  melancholy.  Do 
you  ever  go  to  buffets  with  yourself,  Mr.  Lindsay  ?  Do 
you  ever  mock,  in  your  sadder  moods,  the  hopes  which 
render  you  happiest  when  you  are  gay  ?  Ah !  'tis  bitter 
warfare  when  a  man  contends  with  Hope! — when  he  sees 
her,  with  little  aid  from  the  personifying  influence,  as  a 
thing  distinct  from  himself,  —  a  lying  spirit  that  comes  to 
flatter  and  deceive  him.     It  is  thus  I  see  her  to-night. 


See'st  thou  that  grave?  —  does  mortal  know 
Aught  of  tin-  dust  that  lies  below? 
'Tis  foul,  'tis  damp,  'tis  void  of  form,  — 
A  bed  where  winds  the  loathsome  worm! 
A  little  heap,  mould'ring  and  brown, 

That  mi  BowerleSS  meadow  thrown 

liy  mossy  stream,  when  winter  reigns 
4 


38  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

O'er  leafless  woods  and  wasted  plains: 
And  yet,  that  brown,  damp,  formless  heap 
Once  glowed  with  feelings  keen  and  deep; 
Once  eyed  the  light,  once  heard  each  sound 
Of  earth,  air,  wave,  that  murmurs  round. 
But  now,  ah !  now,  the  name  it  bore  — 
Sex,  age,  or  form  —  is  known  no  more. 
This,  this  alone,  O  Hope !  I  know, 
That  once  the  dust  that  lies,  below 
Was,  like  myself,  of  human  race, 
And  made  this  world  its  dwelling-place. 
Ah!  this,  when  earth  has  swept  away 
The  myriads  of  life's  present  day, 
Though  bright  the  visions  raised  by  thee, 
Will  all  my  fame,  my  history  be! 

We  quitted  the  ruins,  and  returned  to  town. 

"  Have  you  yet  formed,"  inquired  my  companion,  "  any 
plan  for  the  future  ?  " 

"  I  quit  St.  Andrews,"  I  replied,  "  to-morrow  morning. 
I  have  an  uncle,  the  master  of  a  West  Indiaman  now  in 
the  Clyde.  Some  years  ago  I  had  a  fancy  for  the  life  of  a 
sailor,  which  has  evaporated,  however,  with  many  of  ray 
other  boyish  fmcies  and  predilections ;  but  I  am  strong 
and  active,  and  it  strikes  me  there  is  less  competition  on 
sea  at  present  than  on  land.  A  man  of  tolerable  stead- 
iness and  intelligence  has  a  better  chance  of  rising  as  a 
sailor  than  as  a  mechanic.  I  shall  set  out  therefore  with 
my  uncle  on  his  first  voyage." 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  FERGUSON.  39 


CHAPTER    IV, 

At  first  I  thought  the  swankie  didna  ill,  — 

Again  I  glowr'd,  to  hear  him  better  still ; 

Bauld,  slee,  an'  sweet,  his  lines  more  glorious  grew, 

Glowed  round  the  heart,  an'  glanced  the  soul  out  through. 

Alexander  Wilson. 

I  had  seen  both  the  Indies  and  traversed  the  wide  Pa- 
cific ere  I  again  set  foot  on  the  eastern  coast  of  Scotland. 
My  uncle,  the  shipmaster,  was  dead,  and  I  was  still  a 
common  sailor ;  but  I  was  light-hearted  and  skilful  in  my 
profession,  and  as  much  inclined  to  hope  as  ever.  Be- 
sides, I  had  begun  to  doubt  —  and  there  cannot  be  a 
more  consoling  doubt  when  one  is  unfortunate —  whether 
a  man  may  not  enjoy  as  much  happiness  in  the  lower 
walks  of  life  as  in  the  upper.  In  one  of  my  later  voyages, 
the  vessel  in  which  I  sailed  had  lain  for  several  weeks  in 
Boston  in  North  America,  then  a  scene  of  those  fierce  and 
angry  contentions  which  eventually  separated  the  colo- 
nies from  the  mother  country ;  and  when  in  this  place,  I 
had  become  acquainted,  by  the  merest  accident  in  the 
world,  with  the  brother  of  my  friend  the  poet.  I  was 
passing  through  one  of  the  meaner  lanes,  when  I  saw  ray 
my  old  friend,  as  I  thought,  looking  out  at  me  from  the 
window  of  a  crazy-looking  building,  —  a  sort  of  fencing 
academy,  much  frequented,  I  was  told,  by  the  Federalists 
of  Boston.     I  crossed  the  lane  in  two  huge  strides. 

"Mr.  Ferguson,"  I  said,  —  "Mr.  Ferguson,"  —  for  he 
was  withdrawing  his  head,  —  "do  you  not  remember  me?" 


40  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

"  Not  quite  sure,"  he  replied  ;  "  I  have  met  with  many- 
sailors  in  my  time ;  but  I  must  just  see." 

He  had  stepped  down  to  the  door  ere  I  had  discovered 
my  mistake.  He  was  a  taller  and  stronger-looking  man 
than  my  friend,  and  his  senior,  apparently,  by  six  or  eight 
years ;  but  nothing  could  be  more  striking  than  the 
resemblance  which  he  bore  to  him,  both  in  face  and 
figure.     I  apologized. 

"  But  have  you  not  a  brother,  a  native  of  Edinburgh,"  I 
inquired,  "  who  studied  at  St.  Andrews  about  four  years 
ago  ?  Never  before,  certainly,  did  I  see  so  remarkable  a 
likeness." 

"  As  that  which  I  bear  Robert  ?  "  he  said.  "  Happy 
to  hear  it.  Robert  is  a  brother  of  whom  a  man  may  well 
be  proud,  and  I  am  glad  to  resemble  him  in  any  way. 
But  you  must  go  in  with  me,  and  tell  me  all  you  know  re- 
garding him.  He  was  a  thin,  pale  slip  of  a  boy  when  I 
left  Scotland, —  a  mighty  reader,  and  fond  of  sauntering 
into  by-holes  and  corners;  I  scarcely  knew  what  to  make 
of  him ;  but  he  has  made  much  of  himself.  His  name  has 
been  blown  far  and  wide  within  the  last  two  years." 

He  showed  me  through  a  large  waste  apartment,  fur- 
nished with  a  few  deal  seats,  and  with  here  and  there  a 
fencing  foil  leaning  against  the  wall,  into  a  sort  of  closet 
at  the  upper  end,  separated  from  the  main  room  by  a  par- 
tition of  undressed  slabs,  There  was  a  charcoal  stove  in 
one  corner,  and  a  truckle-bed  in  the  other.  A  few  shelves 
laden  with  books  ran  alonq;  the  wall.  There  was  a  small 
chest  raised  on  a  stool  immediately  below  the  window,  to 
serve  as  a  writing-desk,  and  another  stool  standing  be- 
side it.  A  few  cooking  utensils,  scattered  round  the  room, 
and  a  corner  cupboard,  completed  the  entire  furniture  of 
the  place. 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF   FERGUSON.  41 

"There  is  a  certain  limited  number  born  to  be  rich, 
Jack,"  said  my  new  companion,  "and  I  just  don't  happen 
to  be  among  them;  but  I  have  one  stool  for  myself,  you 
see,  and,  now  that  I  have  unshipped  my  desk,  another  for 
a  visitor,  and  so  get  on  well  enough." 

I  related  briefly  the  story  of  my  intimacy  with  his 
brother,  and  we  were  soon  on  such  terms  as  to  be  in  a 
fair  way  of  emptying  a  bottle  of  rum  together. 

"  You  remind  me  of  old  times,"  said  my  new  acquaint- 
ance. "  I  am  weary  of  these  illiterate,  boisterous,  long- 
sided  Americans,  who  talk  only  of  politics  and  dollars. 
And  yet  there  are  first-rate  men  among  them  too.  I  met, 
some  years  since,  with  a  Philadelphia  printer,  whom  I 
cannot  help  regarding  as  one  of  the  ablest,  best-informed 
men  I  ever  conversed  with.  But  there  is  nothing  like 
general  knowledge  among  the  average  class,  —  a  mighty 
privilege  of  conceit,  however." 

"They  are  just  in  that  stage,"  I  remarked,  "in  which  it 
needs  all  the  vigor  of  an  able  man  to  bring  his  mind  into 
anything  like  cultivation.  There  must  be  many  more  fa^ 
cilities  of  improvement  ere  the  mediocritist  can  develop 
himself.  He  is  in  the  egg  still  in  America,  and  must 
sleep  there  till  the  next  age.  —  But  when  last  heard  you 
of  your  brother?" 

"  Why,"  he  replied,  "  when  all  the  world  heard  of  him, 
—  with  the  last  number  of  'Kuddiman's  Magazine.' 
Where  can  you  have  been  bottled  up  from  literature  of 
late?  Why,  man,  Robert  stands  first  among  our  Scotch 
poets." 

"Ah!  'tis  long  since  I  have  anticipated  something  like 
that  for  him,"  I  said  ;  "  but  for  the  last  two  years  I  have 
seen  only  two  books,  —  Sliakspeare  and  the  'Spectator.' 
Pray,  do  show  me  some  of  the  magazines." 
4* 


42  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

The  magazines  were  produced;  and  I  heard  for  the  first 
time,  in  a  foreign  land,  and  from  the  recitation  of  the 
poet's  brother,  some  of  the  most  national  and  most  highly- 
finished  of  his  productions.  My  eyes  filled,  and  my  heart 
wandered  to  Scotland  and  her  cottage  homes,  as,  shutting 
the  book,  he  repeated  to  me,  in  a  voice  faltering  with 
emotion,  stanza  after  stanza  of  the  "  Farmer's  Ingle." 

"Do  you  not  see  it?  —  do  you  not  see  it  all?"  ex- 
claimed my  companion  ;  "  the  wide  smoky  room,  with  the 
bright  turf-fire,  the  blackened  rafters  shining  above,  the 
straw-wrought  settle  below,  the  farmer  and  the  farmer's 
wife,  and  auld  grannie  and  the  bairns.  Never  was  there 
truer  painting;  and  oh,  how  it  works  on  a  Scotch  heart! 
But  hear  this  other  piece." 

He  read  "  Sandy  and  Willie." 

"Far,  far  ahead  of  Ramsay,"  I  exclaimed,  —  "more  im- 
agination, more  spirit,  more  intellect,  and  as  much  truth 
and  nature.  Robert  has  gained  his  end  already.  Hurrah 
for  poor  old  Scotland !  —  these  pieces  must  live  for  ever. 
But  do  repeat  to  me  the  '  Farmer's  Ingle'  once  more." 

We  read,  one  by  one,  all  the  poems  in  the  Magazine, 
dwelling  on  each  stanza,  and  expatiating  on  every  recol- 
lection of  home  which  the  images  awakened.  My  com- 
panion was,  like  his  brother,  a  kind,  open-hearted  man,  of 
superior  intellect;  much  less  prone  to  despondency,  how- 
ever, and  of  a  more  equal  temperament.  Ere  we  parted, 
which  was  not  until  next  morning,  he  had  communicated 
to  me  all  his  plans  for  the  future,  and  all  his  fondly-cher- 
ished hopes  of  returning  to  Scotland  with  wealth  enough 
to  be  of  use  to  his  friends.  He  seemed  to  be  one  of  those 
universal  geniuses  who  do  a  thousand  things  well,  but 
want  steadiness  enough  to  turn  any  of  them  to  good 
account.     He  showed   me    a  treatise    on   the   use  of  the 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  FERGUSON.  43 

sword,  which  he  had  just  prepared  for  the  press,  and  a 
series  of  letters  on  the  Stamp  Act,  which  had  appeared 
from  time  to  time  in  one  of  the  Boston  newspapers,  and  in 
which  he  had  taken  part  with  the  Americans. 

"  I  make  a  good  many  dollars  in  these  stirring  times," 
he  said.  "  All  the  Yankees  seem  to  be  of  opinion  that 
they  will  be  best  heard  across  the  water  when  they  have 
got  arms  in  their  hands,  and  have  learned  how  to  use 
them ;  and  I  know  a  little  of  both  the  sword  and  the 
musket.  But  the  warlike  spirit  is  frightfully  thirsty, 
somehow,  and  consumes  a  world  of  rum ;  and  so  I  have 
not  yet  begun  to  make  rich." 

He  shared  with  me  his  supper  and  bed  for  the  night ; 
and,  after  rising  in  the  morning  ere  I  awoke,  and  writing 
a  long  letter  for  Robert,  which  he  gave  me  in  the  hope  I 
might  soon  meet  with  him,  he  accompanied  me  to  the 
vessel,  then  on  the  eve  of  sailing,  and  we  parted,  as  it 
proved,  for  ever.  I  know  nothing  of  his  after-life,  or  how 
or  where  it  terminated ;  but  I  have  learned  that,  shortly 
before  the  death  of  his  gifted  brother,  his  circumstances 
enabled  him  to  send  his  mother  a  small  remittance  for  the 
use  of  the  family.  He  was  evidently  one  of  the  kind- 
hearted,  improvident  few  who  can  share  a  very  little,  and 
whose  destiny  it  is  to  have  only  a  very  little  to  share. 


44  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 


CHAPTER  V. 

O,  Ferguson  !  thy  glorious  parts 

111  suited  law's  dry,  musty  arts! 

My  curse  upon  your  whunstane  hearts, 

Ye  Embrugh  gentry ! 
The  tithe  o'  what  ye  waste  at  cartes 

Wad  stowed  his  pantry! 

Burns. 

I  visited  Edinburgh  for  the  first  time  in  the  latter  part 
of  the  autumn  of  1773,  about  two  months  after  I  had 
sailed  from  Boston.  It  was  on  a  fine  calm  morning,  — 
one  of  those  clear  sunshiny  mornings  of  October  when 
the  gossamer  goes  sailing  about  in  long  cottony  threads, 
so  light  and  fleecy  that  they  seem  the  skeleton  remains  of 
extinct  cloudlets,  and  when  the  distant  hills,  with  then- 
covering  of  gray  frost-rime,  seem,  through  the  clear  close 
atmosphere,  as  if  chiselled  in  marble.  The  sun  was  rising 
over  the  town  through  a  deep  blood-colored  haze,  —  the 
smoke  of  a  thousand  fires  ;  and  the  huge  fantastic  piles 
of  masonry  that  stretched  along  the  ridge  looked  dim 
and  spectral  through  the  cloud,  like  the  ghosts  of  an  army 
of  giants.  I  felt  half  a  foot  taller  as  I  strode  on  towards 
the  town.  It  was  Edinburgh  I  was  approaching,  —  the 
scene  of  so  many  proud  associations  to  a  lover  of  Scot- 
land ;  and  I  was  going  to  meet,  as  an  early  friend,  one 
of  the  first  of  Scottish  poets.  I  entered  the  town.  There 
was  a  book-stall  in  a  corner  of  the  street,  and  I  turned 
aside  for  half  a  minute  to  glance  my  eye  over  the  books. 

"  Ferguson's  Poems !  "  I  exclaimed,  taking  up  a  little 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF   FERGUSON.  45 

volume.     "  I  was  not  aware  they  had  appeared  in  a  sep- 
arate form.     How  do  you  sell  this  ?  " 

"  Just  like  a'  the  ither  booksellers,"  said  the  man  who 
kept  the  stall,  —  "that's  nane  o'  the  buiks  that  come  doun 
in  a  hurry, — just  for  the  marked  selling  price."  I  threw 
down  the  money. 

"Could  you  tell  me  anything  of  the  writer?"  I  said. 
"I  have  a  letter  for  him  from  America." 

"  Oh,  that'll  be  frae  his  brother  Henry,  I'll  wad ;  a 
clever  chield  too,  but  ower  fond  o'  the  drap  drink,  maybe, 
like  Rob  himseP.  Baith  o'  them  fine  humane  chields 
though,  without  a  grain  o'  pride.  Rob  takes  a  stan'  wi' 
me  sometimes  o'  half  an  hour  at  a  time,  an'  we  clatter 
ower  the  buiks  ;  an',  if  I'm  no  mista'en,  yon's  him  just 
yonder, — the  thin,  pale  slip  o'  a  lad  wi'  the  broad  brow. 
Ay,  an'  he's  just  comin'  this  way." 

"  Anything  new  to-day,  Thomas  ? "  said  the  young 
man,  coming  up  to  the  stall.  "  I  want  a  cheap  sec- 
ond-hand copy  of  Ramsay's  'Evergreen';  and,  like  a 
good  man  as  you  are,  you  must  just  try  and  find  it  for 
me." 

Though  considerably  altered,  —  for  he  was  taller  and 
thinner  than  when  at  college,  and  his  complexion  had 
assumed  a  deep  sallow  hue,  —  I  recognized  him  at  once, 
and  presented  him  with  the  letter. 

"  Ah,  from  brother  Henry,"  he  said,  breaking  it  open, 
and  glancing  his  eye  over  the  contents.  "What!  old 
college  chum,  Mr.  Lindsay!'"  he  exclaimed,  turning  to 
me.  "Yes,  sure  enough;  how  happy  I  am  we  should 
have  met!  Come  this  way;  —  let  us  get  out  of  the 
streets." 

We  passed  hurriedly  through  the  Canongate  and  along 
the   front   of   Holyrood    House,    and    were    soon    in    the 


46  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

King's   Park,    which   seemed  this  morning  as    if  left   to 
ourselves. 

"Dear  me,  and  this  is  you  yourself!  and  we  have  again 
met,  Mr.  Lindsay ! "  said  Ferguson  :  "  I  thought  we  were 
never  to  meet  more.  Nothing,  for  a  long  time,  has  made 
me  half  so  glad.  And  so  you  have  been  a  sailor  for  the 
last  four  years.  Do  let  us  sit  down  here  in  the  warm 
sunshine,  beside  St.  Anthony's  Well ;  and  tell  me  all  your 
story,  and  how  you  happened  to  meet  with  brother 
Henry." 

We  sat  down,  and  I  briefly  related,  at  his  bidding,  all 
that  had  befallen  me  since  we  had  parted  at  St.  Andrews, 
and  how  I  was  still  a  common  sailor ;  but,  in  the  main, 
perhaps,  not  less  happy  than  many  who  commanded  a 
fleet. 

"Ah,  you  have  been  a  fortunate  fellow,"  he  said;  "you 
have  seen  much  and  enjoyed  much  ;  and  I  have  been 
rusting  in  unhappiness  at  home.  Would  that  I  had  gone 
to  sea  along  with  you  !  " 

"Nay,  now,  that  won't  do,"  I  replied.  "But  you  are 
merely  taking  Bacon's  method  of  blunting  the  edge  of 
envy.  You  have  scarcely  yet  attained  the  years  of 
mature  manhood,  and  yet  your  name  has  gone  abroad 
over  the  whole  length  and  breadth  of  the  land,  and  over 
many  other  lands  besides.  I  have  cried  over  your  poems 
three  thousand  miles  away,  and  felt  all  the  prouder  of  my 
country  for  the  sake  of  my  friend.  And  yet  you  would 
fain  persuade  me  that  you  wish  the  charm  reversed,  and 
that  you  were  just  such  an  obscure  salt-water  man  as 
myself! " 

"  You  remember,"  said  my  companion,  "  the  story  of 
the  half-man,  half-marble  prince  of  the  Arabian  tale. 
One  part  was  a  living  creature,  one  part  a  stone ;  but  the 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  FERGUSON.  47 

parts  were  incorporated,  and  the  mixture  was  misery.  I 
am  just  such  a  poor  unhappy  creature  as  the  enchanted 
prince  of  the  story." 

"You  surprise  and  distress  me,"  I  rejoined.  "Have 
you  not  accomplished  all  you  so  fondly  purposed, — 
realized  even  your  warmest  wishes  ?  And  this,  too,  in 
early  life.  Your  most  sanguine  hopes  pointed  but  to  a 
name,  which  you  yourself  perhaps  was  never  to  hear, 
but  which  was  to  dwell  on  men's  tongues  when  the  grave 
had  closed  over  you.  And  now  the  name  is  gained,  and 
you  live  to  enjoy  it.  I  see  the  living  part  of  your  lot, 
and  it  seems  instinct  with  happiness ;  but  in  what  does 
the  dead,  the  stony  part,  consist  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head,  and  looked  up  mournfully  into  my 
face.  There  was  a  pause  of  a  few  seconds.  "  You,  Mr. 
Lindsay,"  he  at  length  replied, —  "you,  who  are  of  an 
equable,  steady  temperament,  can  know  little  from  ex- 
perience of  the  unhappiness  of  a  man  who  lives  only  in 
extremes,  who  is  either  madly  gay  or  miserably  de- 
pressed. Try  and  realize  the  feedings  of  one  whose  mind 
is  like  a  broken  harp,  —  all  the  medium  tones  gone,  and 
only  the  higher  and  lower  left  ;  of  one,  too,  whose 
circumstances  seem  of  a  piece  with  his  mind,  who  can 
enjoy  the  exercise  of  his  better  powers,  and  yet  can  only 
live  by  the  monotonous  drudgery  of  copying  page  after 
page  in  a  clerk's  office;  of  one  who  is  continually  either 
groping  his  way  amid  a  chill  melancholy  fog  of  nervous 
depression,  or  carried  headlong  by  a  wild  gayety  to  all 
which  his  better  judgment  would  instruct  him  to  avoid; 
of  one  who,  when  he  indulges  most  in  the  pride  of  su- 
perior intellect,  cannot  away  with  the  thought  that  that 
intellect  is  on  the  eve  of  breaking  up,  and  that  he  must 
yet   rate   infinitely  lower  in   the  scale   of  rationality  than 


48  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

any  of  the  nameless  thousands  who  carry  on  the  ordinary 
concerns  of  life  around  him." 

I  was  grieved  and  astonished,  and  knew  not  what  to 
answer.  "You  are  in  a  gloomy  mood  to-day,"  I  at  length 
said ;  "  you  are  immersed  in  one  of  the  fogs  you  de- 
scribe, and  all  the  surrounding  objects  take  a  tinge  of 
darkness  from  the  medium  through  which  you  survey 
them.  Come,  now,  you  must  make  an  exertion,  and 
shake  off  your  melancholy.  I  have  told  you  all  my  story 
as  I  best  could,  and  you  must  tell  me  all  yours  in  return." 

"Well,"  he  replied,  "I  shall,  though  it  mayn't  be  the 
best  way  in  the  world  of  dissipating  my  melancholy.  I 
think  I  must  have  told  you,  when  at  college,  that  I  had 
a  maternal  uncle  of  considerable  wealth,  and,  as  the 
world  goes,  respectability,  who  resided  in  Aberdeenshire. 
He  was  placed  on  what  one  may  term  the  table-land 
of  society  ;  and  my  poor  mother,  whose  recollections  of 
him  were  limited  to  a  period  when  there  is  warmth  in  the 
feelings  of  the  most  ordinary  minds,  had  hoped  that  he 
would  willingly  exert  his  influence  in  my  behalf.  Much, 
doubtless,  depends  on  one's  setting  out  in  life ;  and  it 
would  have  been  something  to  have  been  enabled  to  step 
into  it  from  a  level  like  that  occupied  by  my  relative.  I 
paid  him  a  visit  shortly  after  leaving  college,  and  met 
with  apparent  kindness.  But  I  can  see  beyond  the 
surface,  Mr.  Lindsay,  and  I  soon  saw  that  my  uncle  was 
entirely  a  different  man  from  the  brother  whom  my 
mother  remembered.  He  had  risen,  by  a  course  of  slow 
industry,  from  comparative  poverty,  and  his  feelings  had 
worn  out  by  the  process.  The  character  was  case-hard- 
ened all  over;  and  the  polish  it  bore  — for  I  have  rarely 
met  a  smoother  man — seemed  no  improvement.  He 
was,  in  brief,  one  of  the  class  content  to  dwell  for  ever 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  FERGUSON.  49 

in  mere  decencies,  with  consciences  made  up  of  the  con- 
ventional moralities,  who  think  by  precedent,  bow  to 
public  opinion  as  their  god,  and  estimate  merit  by  its 
weight  in  guineas." 

"And  so  your  visit,"  I  said,  "  was  a  very  brief  one  ?  " 

"You  distress  me,"  he  replied.  "It  should  have  been 
so ;  but  it  was  not.  But  what  could  I  do  ?  Ever  since 
my  father's  death  I  had  been  taught  to  consider  this  man 
as  my  natural  guardian,  and  I  was  now  unwilling  to  part 
with  my  last  hope.  But  this  is  not  all.  Under  much 
apparent  activity,  my  friend,  "there  is  a  substratum  of 
apathetical  indolence  in  my  disposition:  I  move  rapidly 
when  in  motion ;  but  when  at  rest,  there  is  a  dull  inert- 
ness in  the  character,  which  the  will,  when  unassisted  by 
passion,  is  too  feeble  to  overcome.  Poor,  weak  creature 
that  I  am  !  I  had  set  down  by  my  uncle's  fireside,  and 
felt  unwilling  to  rise.  Pity  me,  my  friend,  —  I  deserve 
your  pity  ;  hut  eh  !  do  not  despise  me  !  " 

"  Forgive  me,  Mr.  Ferguson,"  I  said;  "I  have  given  you 
pain,  but  surely  most  unwittingly." 

"I  am  ever  a  fool,"  he  continued.  "But  my  story  lags; 
and,  surely,  there  is  little  in  it  on  which  it  were  pleasure 
to  dwell.  I  sat  at  this  man's  table  for  six  months,  and 
saw,  day  after  day,  his  manner  towards  me  becoming 
more  constrained,  and  his  politeness  more  cold  ;  and  yet 
I  staid  on,  till  at  last  my  clothes  were  worn  threadbare, 
and  lie  began  to  feel  that  the  shabbiness  of  the  nephew 
affected  the  respectability  of  the  uncle.  His  friend  the 
soap-boiler,  and  his  friend  the  oil-merchant,  and  his  friend 
the  manager  of  the  hemp  manufactory,  with  their  wives 
and  daughters,  —  all  people  of  high  standing  in  the  world, 
—  occasionally  honored  his  table  with  their  presence: 
and  how  could  he  be  other  than  ashamed   of  mine  ?     It 

5 


50  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

vexes  me  that  I  cannot  even  yet  be  cool  on  the  subject: 
it  vexes  me  that  a  creature  so  sordid  should  have  so  much 
power  to  move  me;  but  I  cannot,  I  cannot  master  my 
feelings.  He  —  he  told  me,  —  and  with  whom  should 
the  blame  rest,  but  with  the  weak,  spiritless  thing  who 
lingered  on  in  mean,  bitter  dependence,  to  hear  what  he 
had  to  tell?  —  he  told  me  that  all  his  friends  were  respect- 
able, and  that  my  appearance  was  no  longer  that  of  a 
person  whom  he  could  wish  to  see  at  his  table,  or  intro- 
duce to  any  one  as  his  nephew.  And  I  had  staid  to  hear 
all  this ! 

"I  can  hardly  tell  you  how  I  got  home.  I  travelled, 
stage  after  stage,  along  the  rough  dusty  roads,  with  a 
weak  and  feverish  body,  and  almost  despairing  mind. 
On  meeting  with  my  mother,  I  could  have  laid  my  head 
on  her  bosom  and  cried  like  a  child.  I  took  to  my  bed 
in  a  high  fever,  and  trusted  that  all  my  troubles  were  soon 
to  terminate ;  but  when  the  die  was  cast,  it  turned  up  life. 
I  resumed  my  old  miserable  employments,  —  for  what 
could  I  else  ?  —  and,  that  I  might  be  less  unhappy  in  the 
prosecution  of  them,  my  old  amusements  too.  I  copied 
during  the  day  in  a  clerk's  office  that  I  might  live,  and 
wrote  durins:  the  nirftt  that  I  mio-ht  be  known.  And  I 
have  in  part,  perhaps,  attained  my  object.  I  have  pursued 
and  caught  hold  of  the  shadow  on  which  my  heart  had 
been  so  long  set ;  and  if  it  prove  empty  and  intangible 
and  unsatisfactory,  like  every  other  shadow,  the  blame 
surely  must  rest  with  the  pursuer,  not  with  the  thing 
pursued.  I  weary  you,  Mr.  Lindsay;  but  one  word  more. 
There  are  hours  when  the  mind,  weakened  by  exertion  or 
by  the  teasing  monotony  of  an  employment  which  tasks 
without  exercising  it,  can  no  longer  exert  its  powers,  and 
when,  feeling  that  sociality  is  a  law  of  our  nature,  we 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  FERGUSON.  51 

seek  the  society  of  our  fellow-men.  With  a  creature  so 
much  the  sport  of  impulse  as  I  am,  it  is  of  these  hours 
of  weakness  that  conscience  takes  most  note.  God  heip 
me!  I  have  been  told  that  life  is  short;  but  it  stretches 
on  and  on  and  on  before  me ;  and  I  know  not  how  it  is 
to  be  passed  through." 

My  spirits  had  so  sunk  during  this  singular  conversa- 
tion that  I  had  no  heart  to  reply. 

"  You  are  silent,  Mr.  Lindsay,"  said  the  poet ;  "  I  have 
made  you  as  melancholy  as  myself;  but  look  around  you, 
and  say  if  ever  you  have  seen  a  lovelier  spot.  See  how 
richly  the  yellow  sunshine  slants  along  the  green  sides  of 
Arthur's  Seat ;  and  how  the  thin  blue  smoke,  that  has 
come  floating  from  the  town,  fills  the  bottom  of  yonder 
grassy  dell  as  if  it  were  a  little  lake  !  Mark,  too,  how 
boldly  the  cliffs  stand  out  along  its  sides,  each  with  its 
little  patch  of  shadow.  And  here,  beside  us,  is  St.  An- 
thony's Well,  so  famous  in  song,  coming  gushing  out  to 
the  sunshine,  and  then  gliding  away  through  the  grass 
like  a  snake.  Had  the  Deity  purposed  that  man  should 
be  miserable,  he  would  surely  never  have  placed  him  in  so 
fair  a  world.  Perhaps  much  of  our  unhappinesa  origi- 
nates in  our  mistaking  our  proper  scope,  and  thus  setting 
out  from  the  first  with  a  false  aim." 

"  Unquestionably,"  I  replied.  "There  is  no  man  who 
has  not  some  part  to  perforin  ;  and  if  it  be  a  great  and 
uncommon  part,  and  the  powers  which  fit  him  for  it 
proportionably  great  and  uncommon,  nature  would  be  in 
error  could  he  slight  it  with  impunity.  See!  there  is  a 
wild  bee  bending  the  flower  beside  you.  Even  that  little 
creature  has  a  capacity  of  happiness  and  misery:  it  de- 
rives its  sense  of  pleasure  from  whatever  runs  in  the  line 
of   its    instincts,    its    experience    of   unhappinesa    from 


52  TALES  AND   SKETCHES. 

whatever  thwarts  and  opposes  them ;  and  can  it  be  sup- 
posed that  so  wise  a  law  should  regulate  the  instincts  of 
only  inferior  creatures  ?  No,  my  friend  ;  it  is  surely  a 
law  of  our  nature  also." 

"And  have  you  not  something  else  to  infer?"  said  the 
poet. 

"Yes,"  I  replied;  "that  you  are  occupied  differently 
from  what  the  scope  and  constitution  of  your  mind  de- 
mand,—  differently  both  in  your  hours  of  enjoyment  and 
of  relaxation.  But  do  take  heart ;  you  will  yet  find  your 
proper  place,  and  all  shall  be  well." 

"Alas!  no,  my  friend,"  said  he,  rising  from  the  sward. 
"I  could  once  entertain  such  a  hope,  but  I  cannot  now. 
My  mind  is  no  longer  what  it  was  to  me  in  my  hap- 
pier days,  a  sort  of  terra  incognita  without  bounds  or 
limits.  I  can  see  over  and  beyond  it.  and  have  fallen 
from  all  my  hopes  regarding  it.  It  is  not  so  much  the 
gloom  of  present  circumstances  that  disheartens  me  as 
a  depressing  knowledge  of  myself,  —  an  abiding  convic- 
tion that  I  am  a  weak  dreamer,  unfitted  for  every  occu 
pation  of  life,  and  not  less  so  for  the  greater  employments 
of  literature  than  for  any  of  the  others.  I  feel  that  I  am 
a  little  man  and  a  little  poet,  with  barely  vigor  enough 
to  make  one  half-effort  at  a  time,  but  wholly  devoid  of 
the  sustaining  will  —  that  highest  faculty  of  the  highest 
order  of  minds  —  which  can  direct  a  thousand  vigorous 
efforts  to  the  accomplishment  of  one  important  object. 
Would  that  I  could  exchange  my  half-celebrity  —  and 
it  can  never  be  other  than  a  half-celebrity  —  for  a  tem- 
per as  equable  and  a  fortitude  as  unshrinking  as  yours  ! 
But  I  weary  you  with  my  complaints :  I  am  a  very 
coward ;  and  you  will  deem  me  as  selfish  as  I  am 
weak." 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  FERGUSON.  53 

We  parted.  The  poet,  sadly  and  unwillingly,  went  to 
copy  deeds  in  the  office  of  the  commissary-clerk ;  and  I, 
almost  reconciled  to  obscurity  and  hard  labor,  to  assist  in 
unlading  a  Baltic  trader  in  the  harbor  of  Leith. 


CHAPTER    VI. 


Speech  without  aim,  and  without  end  employ. 

Crabbe. 


After  the  lapse  of  nine  months,  I  again  returned  to 
Edinburgh.  During  that  period  I  had  been  so  shut  out 
from  literature  and  the  world,  that  I  had  heard  nothing 
of  my  friend  the  poet;  and  it  was  with  a  beating  heart  I 
left  the  vessel,  on  my  first  leisure  evening,  to  pay  him  a 
visit.  It  was  about  the  middle  of  July.  The  day  had 
been  close  and  sultry,  and  the  heavens  overcharged  with 
gray  ponderous  clouds ;  and  as  I  passed  hurriedly  along 
the  walk  which  leads  from  Leith  to  Edinburgh,  I  could 
hear  the  newly-awakened  thunder,  bellowing  far  in  the 
south,  peal  after  peal,  like  the  artillery  of  two  hostile 
armies.  I  reached  the  door  of  the  poet's  humble  domicile, 
and  had  raised  my  hand  to  the  knocker,  when  I  heard 
some  one  singing  from  within,  in  a  voice  by  far  the  most 
touchingly  mournful  I  had  ever  listened  to.  The  tones 
struck  on  my  heart ;  and  a  frightful  suspicion  crossed  my 
mind,  as  I  set  down  the  knocker,  that  the  singer  was  no 
other  than  my  friend.  But  in  what  wretched  circum- 
stances !  what  fearful  state  of  mind  !  I  shuddered  as  I 
listened,  and  heard  the  strain  waxing  louder  and  yet  more 

5* 


54  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

mournful,  and  could  distinguish  that  the  words  were  those 
of  a  simple  old  ballad,  — 

O,  Marti'mas  wind!  when  wilt  thou  blaw, 
An'  shake  the  green  leaves  aff  the  tree? 

O,  gentle  death !  when  wilt  thou  come, 
An'  tak  a  life  that  wearies  me  ? 

I  could  listen  no  longer,  but  raised  the  latch  and  went 
in.  The  evening  was  gloomy,  and  the  apartment  ill- 
lighted  ;  but  I  could  see  the  singer,  a  spectral-looking  fig- 
ure, sitting  on  a  bed  in  the  corner,  with  the  bed-clothes 
wrapped  round  his  shoulders,  and  a  napkin  deeply  stained 
with  blood  on  his  head.  An  elderly  female,  who  stood 
beside  him,  was  striving  to  soothe  him,  and  busied  from 
time  to  time  in  adjusting  the  clothes,  which  were  ever 
and  anon  falling  off  as  he  nodded  his  head  in  time  to  the 
music.  A  young  girl  of  great  beauty  sat  weeping  at  the 
bed-foot. 

"O,  dearest  Robert!"  said  the  woman,  "you  will  de- 
stroy your  poor  head;  and  Margaret,  your  sister,  whom 
you  used  to  love  so  much,  will  break  her  heart.  Do  lie 
down,  dearest,  and  take  a  little  rest.  Your  head  is  fear- 
fully gashed  ;  and  if  the  bandages  loose  a  second  time,  you 
will. bleed  to  death.  Do,  dearest  Robert !  for  your  poor  old 
mother,  to  whom  you  were  always  so  kind  and  dutiful  a 
son  till  now,  —  for  your  poor  old  mother's  sake,  do  lie 
down." 

The  sono-  ceased  for  a  moment,  and  the  tears  came 
bursting  from  my  eyes  as  the  tune  changed,  and  he  again 


sang, 


O,  mither  dear!  make  ye  my  bed, 
For  my  heart  it's  flichterin'  sair; 

An'  oh!  gin  I've  vex'd ye, mither  dear, 
I'll  never  vex  ye  mair. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  FERGUSON.  55 

I've  staid  ar'out  the  lang  dark  nicht, 

I'  the  sleet  and  the  plashy  rain; 
But,  mither  dear,  make  ye  ray  bed, 

An'  I'll  ne'er  gang  out  again. 

"  Dearest,  dearest  Robert !  "  continued  the  poor,  heart- 
broken woman,  "  do  lie  down,  —  for  your  poor  old  moth- 
er's sake,  do  lie  down." 

"  No,  no,"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  hurried  voice,  "  not  just 
now,  mother,  not  just  now.  Here  is  my  friend  Mr.  Lindsay 
come  to  see  me,  —  my  true  friend,  Mr.  Lindsay  the  sailor, 
who  has  sailed  all  round  and  round  the  world ;  and  I 
have  much,  much  to  ask  him.  A  chair,  Margaret,  for  Mr. 
Lindsay.  I  must  be  a  preacher  like  John  Knox,  you 
know,  —  like  the  great  John  Knox,  the  reformer  of  a 
nation,  —  and  Mr.  Lindsay  knows  all  about  him.  A  chair, 
Margaret,  for  Mr.  Lindsay." 

I  am  not  ashamed  to  say  it  was  with  tears,  and  in  a 
voice  faltering  with  emotion,  that  I  apologized  to  the  poor 
woman  for  my  intrusion  at  such  a  time.  Were  it  other- 
wise, I  might  well  conclude  my  heart  grown  hard  as  a 
piece  of  the  nether  millstone. 

"  I  had  known  Robert  at  college,"  I  said  ;  "  had  loved 
and  respected  him ;  and  had  now  come  to  pay  him  a 
visit,  after  an  absence  for  several  months,  wholly  unpre- 
pared for  finding  him  in  his  present  condition."  And 
it  would  seem  that  my  tears  plead  for  me,  and  proved 
to  the  poor  afflicted  woman  and  her  daughter  by  far  the 
most  efficient  part  of  my  apology. 

"  All  my  friends  have  left  me  now,  Mr.  Lindsay,"  said 
the  unfortunate  poet,  —  "  they  have  all  left  me  now  ;  they 
love  this  present  world.  We  were  all  going  down,  down, 
down;  there  was  the  roll  of  a  river  behind  us;  it  came 
bursting    over   the    high    rocks,  roaring,  rolling,  foaming, 


56  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

down  upon  us  ;  and,  though  the  fog  was  thick  and  dark 
below, — far  below*,  in  the  place  to  which  we  were  going, 
—  I  could  see  the  red  fire  shining  through, — the  red,  hot, 
unquenchable  fire ;  and  we  were  all  going  down,  down, 
down.  Mother,  mother,  tell  Mr.  Lindsay  I  am  going  to  be 
put  on  my  trials  to-morrow.  Careless  creature  that  I  am ! 
life  is  short,  and  I  have  lost  much  time;  but  I  am  going 
to  be  put  on  my  trials  to-morrow,  and  shall  come  forth  a 
preacher  of  the  Word." 

The  thunder,  which  had  hitherto  been  muttering  at  a 
distance,  —  each  peal,  however,  nearer  and  louder  than 
the  preceding  one,  —  now  began  to  roll  overhead,  and  the 
lightning,  as  it  passed  the  window,  to  illumine  every 
object  within.  The  hapless  poet  stretched  out  his  thin, 
wasted  arm,  as  if  addressing  a  congregation  from  the 
pulpit. 

"  There  were  the  flashings  of  lightning,"  he  said,  "  and 
the  roll  of  thunder ;  and  the  trumpet  waxed  louder  and 
louder.  And  around  the  summit  of  the  mountain  were 
the  foldings  of  thick  clouds,  and  the  shadow  fell  brown 
and  dark  over  the  wide  expanse  of  the  desert.  And  the 
wild  beasts  lay  trembling  in  their  dens.  But,  lo !  where 
the  sun  breaks  through  the  opening  of  the  cloud,  there  is 
the  glitter  of  tents,  —  the  glitter  often  thousand  tents, — 
that  rise  over  the  sandy  waste  thick  as  waves  of  the  sea. 
And  there,  there  is  the  voice  of  the  dance,  and  of  the 
revel,  and  the  winding  of  horns,  and  the  clash  of  cymbals. 
Oh,  sit  nearer  me,  dearest  mother,  for  the  room  is  growing 
dark,  dark ;  and  oh,  my  poor  head ! 

The  lady  sat  on  the  castle  wa', 
Looked  owre  baith  dale  and  down, 

And  then  she  spied  Gil-Morice  head 
Come  steering  through  the  town. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  FERGUSON.  57 

Do,  dearest  mother,  put  your  cool  hand  on  my  brow,  and 
do  hold  it  fast  ere  it  part,  How  fearfully,  oh,  how  fear- 
fully it  aches!  —  and  oh,  how  it  thunders!"  He  sunk 
backward  on  the  pillow,  apparently  exhausted.  "Gone, 
gone,  gone,"  he  muttered, — "my  mind  gone  forever. 
But  God's  will  be  done." 

I  rose  to  leave  the  room  ;  for  I  could  restrain  my  feel- 
ings no  longer. 

"  Stay,  Mr.  Lindsay,"  said  the  poet,  in  a  feeble  voice. 
"I  hear  the  rain  dashing  on  the  pavement;  you  must  not 
go  till  it  abates.  Would  that  you  could  pray  beside  me ! 
But  no ;  you  are  not  like  the  dissolute  companions  who 
have  now  all  left  me,  but  you  are  not  yet  fitted  for  that ; 
and,  alas!  I  cannot  pray  for  myself.  Mother,  mother,  see 
that  there  be  prayers  at  my  lykewake  ;  for,  — 

Her  lykewake,  it  was  piously  spent 

In  social  prayer  and  praise, 
Performed  by  judicious  men, 

Who  stricken  were  in  days; 
And  many  a  heavy,  heavy  heart, 

Was  in  that  mournful  place, 
And  many  a  weary,  weary  thought 

On  her  who  slept  in  peace. 

They  will  come  all  to  my  lykewake,  mother,  won't  they? 
Yes,  all,  though  they  have  left  me  now.  Yes,  and  they 
will  come  far  to  see  my  grave.  I  was  poor,  very  poor, 
you  know,  and  they  looked  down  upon  me;  and  I  was  no 
son  or  cousin  of  theirs,  and  so  they  could  do  nothing  for 
me.  Oh,  but  they  might  have  looked  less  coldly !  But 
they  will  all  come  to  my  grave,  mother;  they  will  come 
all  to  my  grave ;  and  they  will  say,  'Would  he  were  liv- 
ing now,  to  know  how  kind  we  arc  !  '  But  thev  will  look 
as  coldly  as  ever  on  the  living  poet  beside  them,  — yes,  till 


58  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

they  have  broken  his  heart;  and  then  they  will  go  to  his 
grave  too.  O,  dearest  mother !  do  lay  your  cool  hand  on 
my  brow." 

He  lay  silent  and  exhausted,  and  in  a  few  minutes  I 
could  hope,  from  the  hardness  of  his  breathing,  that  he 
had  fallen  asleep. 

"  How  long,"  I  inquired  of  his  sister,  in  a  low  whisper, 
"has  Mr.  Ferguson  been  so  unwell;  and  what  has  injured 
his  head  ?  " 

"  Alas  ! "  said  the  girl,  "  my  brother  has  been  unsettled 
in  mind  for  nearly  the  last  six  months.     We  first  knew  it 
one  evening  on  his  coming  home  from  the  country,  where 
he  had  been  for  a  few  days  with  a  friend.     He  burnt  a 
large  heap  of  papers  that  he  had   been  employed  on  for 
weeks   before,  —  songs    and   poems   that,  his  friends  say, 
were  the  finest  things  he  ever  wrote ;  but  he  burnt  them 
all,  for  he  was  going  to  be  a  preacher  of  the  Word,  he 
said,  and  it  did  not  become  a  preacher  of  the  Word  to 
be    a   writer   of  light   rhymes.      And    O,  sir !    his   mind 
has   been    carried    ever   since;  but  he   has  been   always 
gentle  and    affectionate,  and  his  sole  delight  has  lain  in 
reading  the  Bible.     Good  Dr.  Erskine,  of  the  Gray-friars, 
often  comes  to  our  house,  and  sits  with  him  for  hours  to- 
gether :  for  there  are  times  when  his  mind  seems  stronger 
than  ever;    and  he  sees  wonderful  things,  that  seem  to 
hover,  the  minister  says,  between  the  extravagance  natu- 
ral to  his  present  sad  condition,  and  the  higher  flights  of  a 
philosophic  genius.     And  we  had  hoped  that  he  was  get- 
ting better;  but  O,  sir!  our  hopes  have  had  a  sad  ending. 
He  went  out,  a  few  evenings  ago,  to  call  on  an  old  ac- 
quaintance ;  and,  in  descending  a  stair,  missed  footing,  and 
fell  to  the  bottom ;  and  his  head  has  been  fearfully  in- 
jured by  the  stones.     He  has  been  just  as  you  have  seen 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  FERGUSON.  59 

him  ever  since  ;  and  oh  !  I  much  fear  he  cannot  now  re- 
cover. Alas  !  my  poor  brother!  —  never,  never  was  there 
a  more  affectionate  heart." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A  lowly  muse ! 
She  sings  of  reptiles  yet  in  song  unknown. 

I  returned  to  the  vessel  with  a  heavy  heart ;  and  it 
was  nearly  three  months  from  this  time  ere  I  again  set 
foot  in  Edinburgh.  Alas  for  my  unfortunate  friend  !  He 
was  now  an  inmate  of  the  asylum,  and  on  the  verge  of 
dissolution.  I  was  thrown  by  accident,  shortly  after  my 
arrival  at  this  time,  into  the  company  of  one  of  his  boon 
companions.  I  had  gone  into  a  tavern  with  a  brother 
sailor,  —  a  shrewd,  honest  skipper  from  the  north  coun- 
try ;  and,  finding  the  place  occupied  by  half-a-dozen  young 
fellows,  who  were  growing  noisy  over  their  liquor,  I 
would  have  immediately  gone  out  again,  had  I  not 
caught,  in  the  passing,  a  few  words  regarding  my  friend. 
And  so,  drawing  to  a  side-table,  I  sat  down. 

"Believe  me,"  said  one  of  the  topers,  a  dissolute-looking 
young  man,  "  it's  all  over  with  Bob  Ferguson,  —  all  over  ; 
and  I  knew  it  from  the  moment  he  grew  religious.     Had- 
old  Brown  tried  to  convert  me,  I  would  have  broken  his 
face." 

"What  Brown  ?  "  inquired  one  of  his  companions. 

"Is  that   all  you  know?"  rejoined  the  other.     "Why, 
John  Brown,  of  Haddington,  the    Seceder.     Bob  was  at 


60  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

Haddington  last  year  at  the  election  ;  and  one  morning, 
when  in  the  horrors,  after  holding  a  rum  night  of  it,  who 
should  he  meet  in  the  churchyard  but  old  John  Brown. 
He  writes,  you  know,  a  big  book  on  the  Bible.  Well,  he 
lectured  Bob  at  a  pretty  rate  about  election  and  the  call, 
I  suppose  ;  and  the  poor  fellow  has  been  mad  ever  since. 
Your  health,  Jamie.  For  my  own  part,  I'm  a  freewill 
man,  and  detest  all  cant  and  humbug." 

"  And  what  has  come  of  Ferguson  now  ?  "  asked  one  of 
the  others. 

"Oh,  mad,  sir,  mad!"  rejoined  the  toper,  —  "reading 
the  Bible  all  day,  and  cooped  up  in  the  asylum  yonder. 
'Twas  I  who  brought  him  to  it.  But,  lads,  the  glass  has 
been  standing  for  the  last  half-hour.  'Twas  I  and  Jack 
Robinson  who  brought  him  to  it,  as  I  say.  He  was 
getting  wild ;  and  so  we  got  a  sedan  for  him,  and 
trumped  a  story  of  an  invitation  for  tea  from  a  lady,  and 
he  came  with  us  as  quietly  as  a  lamb.  But  if  you  could 
have  heard  the  shriek  he  gave  when  the  chair  stopped, 
and  he  saw  where  we  had  brought  him !  I  never  heard 
anything  half  so  horrible ;  it  rung  in  my  ears  for  a  week 
after ;  and  then,  how  the  mad  people  in  the  upper  rooms 
howled  and  gibbered  in  reply,  till  the  very  roof  echoed ! 
People  say  he  is  getting  better ;  but  when  I  last  saw  him 
he  was  as  religious  as  ever,  and  spoke  so  much  about 
heaven  that  it  was  uncomfortable  to  hear  him.  Great  loss 
to  his  friends,  after  all  the  expense  they  have  been  at  with 
his  education." 

"  You  seem  to  have  been  intimate  with  Mr.  Ferguson," 
I  said. 

"  Oh,  intimate  with  Bob  ! "  he  rejoined  ;  "  we  were  hand 
and  glove,  man.  I  have  sat  with  him  in  Lucky  Middle- 
mass's  almost  every  evening  for  two  years;  and  I  have 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    FERGUSON.  61 

given  him  hints  for  some  of  the  best  things  in  his  book. 
'Twas  I  who  tumbled  clown  the  cage  in  the  Meadows,  and 
began  breaking  the  lamps. 

« 
Ye  who  oft  finish  care  in  Lethe's  cup,  — 
Who  love  to  swear  and  roar,  and  keep  it  up, — 
List  to  a  brother's  voice,  whose  sole  delight 
Is  sleep  all  day,  and  riot  all  the  night. 

"  There's  spirit  for  you!  But  Bob  was  never  sound  at 
bottom  ;  and  I  have  told  him  so.  '  Bob,'  I  have  said,  — 
'  Bob,  you're  but  a  hypocrite  after  all,  man,  —  without 
half  the  spunk  you  pretend  to.  Why  don't  you  take 
a  pattern  by  me,  who  fear  nothing,  and  believe  only  the 
agreeable  ?  But,  poor  fellow,  he  had  weak  nerves,  and  a 
church-going  propensity  that  did  him  no  good  ;  and  you 
see  the  effects.  'Twas  all  nonsense,  Tom,  of  his  throwing 
the  squib  into  the  Glassite  meeting-house.  Between  you 
and  I,  that  was  a  cut  far  beyond  him  in  his  best  days, 
poet  as  he  was.  'Twas  I  who  did  it,  man  ;  and  never  Avas 
there  a  cleaner  row  in  Auld  Reekie." 

"Heartless,  contemptible  puppy!"  said  my  comrade 
the  sailor,  as  we  left  the  room.  "  Your  poor  friend  must 
be  ill  indeed  if  he  be  but  half  as  insane  as  his  quondam 
companion.  But  he  cannot:  there  is  no  madness  like  that 
of  the  heart.  What  could  have  induced  a  man  of  genius 
to  associate  with  a  thing  so  thoroughly  despicable?" 

"The  same  misery,  Miller,"  I  said,  "that  brings  a  man 
acquainted  with  strange  bed-fellows." 

6 


62  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

O,  thou,  my  elder  brother  in  misfortune !  — 
By  far  my  elder  brother  in  the  muses,— 
With  tears  I  pity  thy  unhappy  fate ! 

Burns. 

The  asylum  in  which  my  unfortunate  friend  was  ct.ij- 
fined  —  at  this  time  the  only  one  in  Edinburgh  —  was 
situated  in  an  angle  of  the  city  wall.  It  was  a  dismal- 
looking  mansion,  shut  in  on  every  side  by  the  neighbor- 
ing houses  from  the  view  of  the  surrounding  country, 
and  so  effectually  covered  up  from  the  nearer  street  by 
a  large  building  in  front  that  it  seemed  possible  enough 
to  pass  a  lifetime  in  Edinburgh  without  coming  to  the 
knowledge  of  its  existence.  I  shuddered  as  I  looked  up 
to  its  blackened  walls,  thinly  sprinkled  with  miserable- 
looking  windows  barred  with  iron,  and  thought  of  it 
as  a  sort  of  burial-place  of  dead  minds.  But  it  was  a 
Golgotha  which,  with  more  than  the  horrors  of  the  grave, 
had  neither  its  rest  nor  its  silence.  I  was  startled,  as 
I  entered  the  cell  of  the  hapless  poet,  by  a  shout  of 
laughter  from  a  neighboring  room,  which  was  answered 
from  a  dark  recess  behind  me  by  a  fearfully-prolonged 
shriek  and  the  clanking:  of  chains.  The  mother  and 
sister  of  Ferguson  were  sitting  beside  his  i^allet,  on  a  sort 
of  stone  settle,  which  stood  out  from  the  wall ;  and  the 
poet  himself —  weak  and  exhausted  and  worn  to  a 
shadow,  but  apparently  in  his  right  mind  —  lay  extended 
on  the  straw.     He  made  an  attempt  to  rise  as  I  entered  ; 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  FERGUSON.  63 

but  the  effort  was  above  his  strength,  and,  again  lying 
down,  he  extended  his  hand. 

"This  is  kind,  Mr.  Lindsay,"  he  said;  "it  is  ill  forme 
to  be  alone  in  these  days ;  and  yet  I  have  few  visitors 
save  my  poor  old  mother  and  Margaret.  But  who  cares 
for  the  unhappy  ?  " 

I  sat  down  on  the  settle  beside  him,  still  retaining  his 
hand.  "  I  have  been  at  sea,  and  in  foreign  countries,"  I 
said,  "since  I  last  saw  you,  Mr.  Ferguson,  and  it  was 
only  this  morning  I  returned ;  but,  believe  me,  there  are 
many,  many  of  your  countrymen  who  sympathize  sin- 
cerely in  your  affliction,  and  take  a  warm  interest  in  your 
recover}."' 

lie  sighed  deeply.  "Ah,"  he  replied,  "  I  know  too  well 
the  nature  of  that  sympathy.  You  never  find  it  at  the 
bedside  of  the  sufferer;  it  evaporates  in  a  few  barren 
expressions  of  idle  pity !  and  yet,  after  all,  it  is  but  a 
paying  the  poet  in  kind.  He  calls  so  often  on  the  world 
to  sympathize  over  fictitious  misfortune  that  the  feeling 
wears  out,  and  becomes  a  mere  mood  of  the  imagination ; 
and  with  this  light,  attenuated  pity,  of  his  own  weaving, 
it  regards  his  own  real  sorrows.  Dearest  mother,  the 
evening  is  damp  and  chill.  Do  gather  the  bed-clothes 
around  me,  and  sit  on  my  feet:  they  are  so  very  cold,  and 
60  dead  that  they  cannot  be  colder  a  week  hence." 

"  O,  Robert !  why  do  you  speak  so  ? "  said  the  poor 
woman,  as  she  gathered  the  clothes  around  him,  and  sat 
on  his  feet.  "You  know  you  are  coming  home  to- 
morrow." 

"To-morrow!"  he  said;  "if  I  see  to-morrow,  I  shall 
have  completed  my  twenty-fourth  year,  —  a  small  part, 
surely,  of  the  threescore  and  ten  ;  but  what  matters  it 
when  'tis  past?" 


64  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

"You  were  ever,  my  friend,  of  a  melancholy  tempera- 
ment," I  said,  "  and  too  little  disposed  to  hope.  Indulge 
in  brighter  views  of  the  future,  and  all  shall  yet  be  well." 

"I  can  now  hope  that  it  shall,"  he  said.  "Yes,  all 
shall  be  well  with  me,  and  that  very  soon.  But  oh, 
how  this  nature  of  ours  shrinks  from  dissolution  !  —  yes, 
and  all  the  lower  natures  too.  You  remember,  mother, 
the  poor  starling  that  was  killed  in  the  room  beside  us  ? 
Oh,  how  it  struggled  with  its  ruthless  enemy,  and  filled 
the  whole  place  with  its  shrieks  of  terror  and  agony ! 
And  yet,  poor  little  thing,  it  had  been  true,  all  life  long, 
to  the  laws  of  its  nature,  and  had  no  sins  to  account  for 
and  no  Judo;e  to  meet.  There  is  a  shrinking  of  heart  as 
I  look  before  me  ;  and  yet  I  can  hope  that  all  shall  yet 
be  well  with  me,  and  that  very  soon.  Would  that  I  had 
been  wise  in  time  !  Would  that  I  had  thought  more  and 
earlier  of  the  things  which  pertain  to  my  eternal  peace  !  — 
more  of  a  living  soul,  and  less  of  a  dying  name !  But 
oh !  'tis  a  glorious  provision,  through  which  a  way  of 
return  is  opened  up,  even  at  the  eleventh  hour." 

We  sat  around  him  in  silence.  An  indescribable  feel- 
ing of  awe  pervaded  my  whole  mind ;  and  his  sister  was 
affected  to  tears. 

"Margaret,"  he  said,  in  a  feeble  voice,  —  "Margaret, 
you  will  find  my  Bible  in  yonder  little  recess  :  'tis  all  I 
have  to  leave  you ;  but  keep  it,  dearest  sister,  and  use  it, 
and  in  times  of  sorrow  and  suffering,  that  come  to  all, 
you  will  know  how  to  prize  the  legacy  of  your  poor 
brother.  Many,  many  books  do  well  enough  for  life  ;  but 
there  is  only  one  of  any  value  when  we  come  to  die. 

"  You  have  been  a  voyager  of  late,  Mr.  Lindsay,"  he 
continued,  "and  I  have  been  a  voyager  too.  I  have  been 
journeying  in  darkness  and  discomfort,  amid  strange  un- 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  FERGUSON.  05 

earthly  shapes  of  dread  and  horror,  with  no  reason  to 
direct,  and  no  will  to  govern.  Oh,  the  unspeakable 
unhappiness  of  these  wanderings!  —  these  dreams  of  sus- 
picion, and  fear,  and  hatred,  in  which  shadow  and 
substance,  the  true  and  the  false,  were  so  wrought  up 
and  mingled  together  that  they  formed  but  one  fantastic 
and  miserable  whole.  And  oh,  the  unutterable  horror  of 
every  momentary  return  to  a  recollection  of  what  I  had 
been  once,  and  a  sense  of  what  I  had  become  !  Oh,  when 
I  awoke  amid  the  terrors  of  the  night ;  when  I  turned 
me  on  the  rustling  straw,  and  heard  the  wild  wail,  and 
yet  wilder  laugh ;  when  I  heard,  and  shuddered,  and 
then  felt  the  demon  in  all  his  might  coming  over  me,  till 
I  laughed  and  wailed  with  the  others,  —  oh,  the  misery ! 
the  utter  misery  !  But  'tis  over,  my  friend,  —  'tis  all  over. 
A  few,  few  tedious  days  —  a  few,  few  weary  nights  — 
and  all  my  sufferings  shall  be  over." 

I  had  covered  my  face  with  my  hands,  but  the  tears 
came  bursting  through  my  fingers.  The  mother  and 
sister  of  the  poet  sobbed  aloud. 

"  Why  sorrow  for  me,  sirs  ?  "  he  said  ;  "  why  grieve  for 
mi s?  I  am  well,  quite  well,  and  want  for  nothing.  But  ' 
'tis  cold,  oh,  'tis  very  cold,  and  the  blood  seems  freezing 
at  my  heart.  Ah,  but  there  is  neither  pain  nor  cold 
where  I  am  going,  and  I  trust  it  will  be  well  with  my 
soul.  Dearest,  dearest  mother,  I  always  told  you  it  would 
come  to  this  at  last." 

The  keeper  had  entered,  to  intimate  to  us  that  the  hour 
for  locking  up  the  cells  was  already  past;  and  we  now 
rose  to  leave  the  place.  I  stretched  out  my  hand  to  my 
unfortunate  friend.  He  took  it  in  silence  ;  and  his  thin, 
attenuated  fingers  felt  cold  within  my  grasp,  like  those  of 
a  corpse.  His  mother  stooped  down  to  embrace  him. 
6* 


66  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

"  Oh,  do  not  go  yet,  mother,"  he  said,  — "  do  not  go 
yet,  —  do  not  leave  me.  But  it  must  be  so,  and  I  only 
distress  you.  Pray  for  me,  dearest  mother,  and  oh,  for- 
give me.  I  have  been  a  grief  and  a  burden  to  you  all  life 
long ;  but  I  ever  loved  you,  mother ;  and  oh,  you  have 
been  kind,  kind  and  forgiving ;  and  now  your  task  is  over. 
May  God  bless  and  reward  you !  Margaret,  dearest  Mar- 
garet, farewell ! " 

We  parted,  and,  as  it  proved,  forever.  Robert  Fer- 
guson expired  during  the  night ;  and  when  the  keeper 
entered  the  cell  next  morning  to  prepare  him  for  quitting 
the  asylum,  all  that  remained  of  this  most  hapless  of  the 
children  of  genius  was  a  pallid  and  Avasted  corpse,  that 
lay  stiffening  on  the  straw.  I  am  now  a  very  old  man, 
and  the  feelings  wear  out ;  but  I  find  that  my  heai-t  is 
even  yet  susceptible  of  emotion,  and  that  the  source  of 
tears  is  not  yet  dried  up. 


II. 

RECOLLECTIONS   OF  BURNS. 

CHAPTER  I. 


Wear  we  not  graven  on  our  hearts 
The  name  of  Robert  Burns? 

American  Poet. 


Thb  degrees  shorten  as  we  proceed  from  the  lower  to 
the  higher  latitudes ;  the  years  seem  to  shorten  in  a  much 
greater  ratio  as  we  pass  onward  through  life.  We  are  al- 
most disposed  to  question  whether  the  brief  period  of 
storms  and  foul  weather  that  floats  over  us  with  such 
dream-like  rapidity,  and  the  transient  season  of  flowers 
and  sunshine  that  seems  almost  too  short  for  enjoyment, 
be  at  all  identical  with  the  long  summers  and  still  longer 
winters  of  our  boyhood,  when  day  after  day,  and  week 
after  week,  stretched  away  in  dim  perspective,  till  lost  in 
the  obscurity  of  an  almost  inconceivable  distance.  Young 
as  I  was,  I  had  already  passed  the  period  of  life  when  we 
wonder  how  it  is  that  the  years  should  be  described  as 
short  and  fleeting;  and  it  seemed  as  if  I  had  stood  but 
yesterday  beside  the  deathbed  of  the  unfortunate  Fer- 
guson, though  the  flowers  of  four  summers  and  the  snows 
of  four  winters  had  been  shed  over  his  grave. 


68  TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

My  prospects  in  life  had  begun  to  brighten.  I  served 
in  the  capacity  of  mate  in  a  large  West  India  trader,  the 
master  of  which,  an  elderly  man  of  considerable  wealth, 
was  on  the  eve  of  quitting  the  sea ;  and  the  owners  had 
already  determined  that  I  should  succeed  him  in  the 
charge.  But  fate  had  ordered  it  otherwise.  Our  seas 
were  infested  at  this  period  by  American  privateers, — 
prime  sailors  and  strongly  armed;  and,  when  homeward 
bound  from  Jamaica  with  a  valuable  cargo,  we  were  at- 
tacked and  captured,  when  within  a  day's  sailing  of  Ire- 
land, by  one  of  the  most  formidable  of  the  class.  Vain 
as  resistance  might  have  been  deemed,  —  for  the  force  of 
the  American  was  altogether  overpowering,  —  and  though 
our  master,  poor  old  man !  and  three  of  the  crew,  had 
fallen  by  the  first  broadside,  we  had  yet  stood  stiffly  by  our 
guns,  and  were  only  overmastered  when,  after  falling  foul 
of  the  enemy,  we  were  boarded  by  a  party  of  thrice  our 
strength  and  number.  The  Americans,  irritated  by  our 
resistance,  proved  on  this  occasion  no  generous  enemies  : 
we  were  stripped  and  heavily  ironed,  and,  two  days  after, 
were  set  ashore  on  the  wild  shore  of  Connaught,  without 
a  single  change  of  dress,  or  a  single  sixpence  to  bear  us 
by  the  way. 

I  was  sitting,  on  the  following  night,  beside  the  turf- 
fire  of  a  hospitable  Irish  peasant,  when  a  seafaring  man, 
whom  I  had  sailed  with  about  two  years  before,  entered 
the  cabin.  The  meeting  was  equally  unexpected  on 
either  side.  My  acquaintance  was  the  master  of  a  smug- 
gling lugger  then  on  the  coast ;  and,  on  acquainting  him 
with  the  details  of  my  disaster  and  the  state  of  destitu- 
tion to  which  it  had  reduced  me,  he  kindly  proposed  that 
I  should  accompany  him  on  his  voyage  to  the  west  coast 
of  Scotland,  for  which  he  was  then  on  the  eve  of  sailing. 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF   BURNS.  69 

"  You  will  run  some  little  risk,"  he  said,  "  as  the  compan- 
ion of  a  man  who  has  now  been  thrice  outlawed  for  firing 
on  his  Majesty's  flag ;  but  I  know  your  proud  heart  will 
prefer  the  danger  of  bad  company,  at  its  worst,  to  the  al- 
ternative of  begging  your  way  home."  He  judged  rightly. 
Before  daybreak  we  had  lost  sight  of  land,  and  in  four 
days  more  we  could  discern  the  precipitous  shores  of  Car- 
rick,  stretching  in  a  dark  line  along  the  horizon,  and  the 
hills  of  the  interior  rising  thin  and  blue  behind,  like  a 
volume  of  clouds.  A  considerable  part  of  our  cargo, 
which  consisted  mostly  of  tea  and  spirits,  was  consigned  to 
an  Ayr  trader,  who  had  several  agents  in  the  remote  par- 
ish of  Kirkoswald,  which  at  this  period  afforded  more 
facilities  for  carrying  on  the  contraband  trade  than  any 
other  on  the  western  coast  of  Scotland,  and  in  a  rocky 
bay  of  the  parish  we  proposed  unlading  on  the  following 
night.  It  was  necessary,  however,  that  the  several  agents, 
who  were  yet  ignorant  of  our  arrival,  should  be  prepared 
to  meet  with  us ;  and,  on  volunteering  my  service  for  the 
purpose,  I  was  landed  near  the  ruins  of  the  ancient  castle 
of  Turnberry,  once  the  seat  of  Robert  the  Bruce. 

I  had  accomplished  my  object.  It  was  evening,  and  a 
party  of  countrymen  were  sauntering  among  the  cl ill's, 
waiting  for  nightfall  and  the  appearance  of  the  lugger. 
There  are  splendid  caverns  on  the  coast  of  Kirkoswald  ; 
and,  to  while  away  the  time,  I  had  descended  to  the  shore 
by  a  broken  and  precipitous  path,  with  a  view  of  explor- 
ing what  are  termed  the  Caves  of  Colzean,  by  far  t In- 
finest  in  this  part  of  Scotland.  The  evening  was  of  gicif 
beauty:  the  sea  spread  out  fror^.  the  cliffs  to  the  far  hori- 
zon like  the  sea  of  gold  and  crystal  described  by  the 
prophet,  and  its  warm  orange  hues  so  harmonized  with 
those  of  the  sky  that,  passing  over  the  dimly-defined  line 


70  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

of  demarcation,  the  whole  upper  and  nether  expanse 
seemed  but  one  glorious  firmament,  with  the  dark  Ailsa, 
like  a  thunder-cloud,  sleeping  in  the  midst.  The  sun 
was  hastening  to  his  setting,  and  threw  his  strong  red 
light  on  the  wall  of  rock  which,  loftier  and  more  imposing 
than  the  walls  of  even  the  mighty  Babylon,  stretched  on- 
ward along  the  beach,  headland  after  headland,  till  the 
last  sank  abruptly  in  the  far  distance,  and  only  the  wide 
ocean  stretched  beyond.  I  passed  along  the  insulated 
piles  of  cliff  that  rise  thick  along  the  bases  of  the  preci- 
pices —  now  in  sunshine,  now  in  shadow  —  till  I  reached 
the  opening  of  one  of  the  largest  caves.  The  roof  rose 
more  than  fifty  feet  over  my  head  ;  a  broad  stream  of 
light,  that  seemed  redder  and  more  fiery  from  the  sur- 
rounding gloom,  slanted  inwards  ;  and,  as  I  paused  in  the 
opening,  my  shadow,  lengthened  and  dark,  fell  across  the 
floor  —  a  slim  and  narrow  bar  of  black  —  till  lost  in  the 
gloom  of  the  inner  recess.  There  was  a  wild  and  uncom- 
mon beauty  in  the  scene  that  powerfully  affected  the 
imagination  ;  and  I  stood  admiring  it,  in  that  delicious 
dreamy  mood  in  which  one  can  forget  all  but  the  present 
enjoyment,  when  I  was  roused  to  a  recollection  of  the 
business  of  the  evening  by  the  sound  of  a  footfall  echoing 
from  within.  It  seemed  approaching  by  a  sort  of  cross 
passage  in  the  rock ;  and,  in  a  moment  after,  a  young  man 
—  one  of  the  country  people  whom  I  had  left  among  the 
cliffs  above  —  stood  before  me.  He  wore  a  broad  Low- 
land bonnet,  and  his  plain  homely  suit  of  coarse  russet 
seemed  to  bespeak  him  a  peasant  of  perhaps  the  poorest 
class;  but  as  he  emerged  from  the  gloom,  and  the  red 
light  fell  full  on  his  countenance,  I  saw  an  indescribable 
something  in  the  expression  that  in  an  instant  awakened 
my  curiosity.     He  was  rather  above  the  middle  size,  of  a 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF   BURNS.  71 

frame  the  most  muscular  and  compact  I  have  almost  ever 
seen ;  and  there  was  a  blended  mixture  of  elasticity  and 
firmness  in  his  tread  that,  to  one  accustomed,  as  I  had 
been,  to  estimate  the  physical  capabilities  of  men,  gave 
evidence  of  a  union  of  immense  personal  strength  with  ac- 
tivity. My  first  idea  regarding  the  stranger — and  I  know 
not  how  it  should  have  struck  me  —  was  that  of  a  very 
powerful  frame,  animated  by  a  double  portion  of  vital- 
ity. The  red  light  shone  full  on  his  face,  and  gave  a 
ruddy  tinge  to  the  complexion,  which  I  afterwards  found 
it  wanted,  for  he  was  naturally  of  a  darker  hue  than 
common  ;  but  there  was  no  mistaking  the  expression  of 
the  large  flashing  eyes,  the  features  that  seemed  so  thor- 
oughly cast  in  the  mould  of  thought,  and  the  broad,  full, 
perpendicular  forehead.  Such,  at  least,  was  the  impres- 
sion on  my  mind,  that  I  addressed  him  with  more  of  the 
courtesy  which  my  earlier  pursuits  had  rendered  familiar 
to  me,  than  of  the  bluntness  of  my  adopted  profession. 
"  This  sweet  evening,"  I  said,  "  is  by  far  too  fine  for  our 
lugger;  I  question  whether,  in  these  calms,  we  need  ex- 
pect her  before  midnight.  But  'tis  well,  since  wait  we 
must,  that  'tis  in  a  place  where  the  hours  may  pass  so 
agreeably."  The  stranger  good-humoredly  acquiesced  in 
the  remark  ;  and  we  sat  down  together  on  the  dry,  water, 
worn  pebbles,  mixed  with  fragments  of  broken  shells  and 
minute  pieces  of  wreck,  tbat  strewed  the  opening  of  thfe 
cave. 

"Wis  there  ever  a  lovelier  evening!"  he  exclaimed. 
"The  waters  above  the  firmament  seem  all  of  a  piece 
with  the  waters  below.  And  never,  surely,  was  there  a 
scene  of  wilder  beauty.  Only  look  inwards,  and  sec  how 
the  stream  of  red  light  seems  bounded  by  the  extreme 
darkness,  like  a  river  by  its  banks,  and  how  the  reflection 


72  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

of  the  ripple  goes  waving  in  golden  curls  along  the 
roof!" 

"I  have  been  admiring  the  scene  for  the  last  half-hour," 
I  said.  "Shakspeare  speaks  of  a  music  that  cannot  be 
heard ;  and  I  have  not  yet  seen  a  place  where  one  might 
better  learn  to  comment  on  the  passage." 

Both  the  thought  and  the  phrase  seemed  new  to  him. 

"A  music  that  cannot  be  heard  !"  he  repeated;  and 
then,  after  a  momentary  pause,  "  You  allude  to  the  fact," 
he  continued,  "that  sweet  music,  and  forms,  such  as  these, 
of  silent  beauty  and  grandeur,  awaken  in  the  mind  emo- 
tions of  nearly  the  same  class.  There  is  something  truly 
exquisite  in  the  concert  of  to-night." 

I  muttered  a  simple  assent. 

"  See!  "  he  continued,  "how  finely  these  insulated  piles 
of  rock,  that  rise  in  so  many  combinations  of  form  along 
the  beach,  break  and  diversify  the  i-ed  light;  and  how  the 
glossy  leaves  of  the  ivy  glisten  in  the  hollows  of  the  preci- 
pices above  !  And  then,  how  the  sea  spreads  away  to 
the  far  horizon,  —  a  glorious  pavement  of  crimson  and 
gold,  —  and  how  the  dark  Ailsa  rises  in  the  midst,  like 
the  little  cloud  seen  by  the  prophet !  The  mind  seems  to 
enlarge,  the  heart  to  expand,  in  the  contemplation  of  so 
much  of  beauty  and  grandeur.  The  soul  asserts  its  due 
supremacy.  And  oh,  'tis  surely  well  that  we  can  escape 
from  those  little  cares  of  life  which  fetter  down  our 
thoughts,  our  hopes,  our  wishes  to  the  wants  and  the  en- 
joyments of  our  animal  existence,  and  that,  amid  the  grand 
and  the  sublime  of  nature,  we  may  learn  from  the  spirit 
within  us  that  we  are  better  than  the  beasts  that  perish  ! " 

I  looked  up  to  the  animated  .countenance  and  flashing 
eyes  of  my  companion,  and  wondered  what  sort  of  a  peas- 
ant it  was  I  had  met  with.     "  Wild  and  beautiful  as  the 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF   BURNS.  73 

scene  is,"  I  said,  "you  will  find,  even  among  those  who 
arrogate  to  themselves  the  praise  of  wisdom  and  learning, 
men  who  regard  such  scenes  as  mere  errors  of  nature. 
Burnett  would  have  told  you  that  a  Dutch  landscape,  with- 
out hill,  rock,  or  valley,  must  be  the  perfection  of  beauty, 
seeing  that  Paradise  itself  could  have  furnished  nothing 
better." 

"  I  hold  Milton  as  higher  authority  on  the  subject,''  said 
my  companion,  "  than  all  the  philosophers  who  ever  wrote. 
Beauty  is  a  tame,  unvaried  flat,  where  a  man  would  know 
his  country  only  by  the  milestones!  A  very  Dutch  para- 
dise, truly ! " 

"  But  would  not  some  of  your  companions  above,"  I 
asked,  "  deem  the  scene  as  much  an  error  of  nature  as 
Burnet  himself?  They  could  pass  over  these  stubborn 
rocks  neither  plough  nor  harrow." 

"  True,"  he  replied;  "there  is  a  species  of  small  wisdom 
in  the  world  that  often  constitutes  the  extremest  of  its 
folly, — a  wisdom  that  would  change  the  entire  nature  of 
good,  had  it  but  the  power,  by  vainly  endeavoring  to  ren- 
der that  good  universal.  It  would  convert  the  entire 
earth  into  one  vast  corn-field,  and  then  find  that  it  had 
ruined  the  species  by  its  improvement." 

"  We  of  Scotland  can  hardly  be  ruined  in  that  way  for 
an  age  to  come,"  I  said.  "But  I  am  not  sure  that  I 
understand  you.  Alter  the  very  nature  of  good  in  the 
attempt  to  render  it  universal !     How?  " 

"  I  dare  say  you  have  seen  a  graduated  scale,"  said  my 
companion,  "exhibiting  the  various  powers  of  the  different 
musical  instruments,  and  observed  how  some  of  limited 
scope  cross  only  a  few  of  the  divisions,  and  how  others 
stretch  nearly  from  side  to  side.  'Tis  but  a  poor  truism, 
perhaps,  to  say  that  similar  differences  in  scope  and  power 

7 


74  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

obtain  among  men,  — that  there  are  minds  who  could  not 
join  in  the  concert  of  to-night,  —  who  could  see  neither 
beauty  nor  grandeur  amid  these  wild  cliffs  and  caverns,  or 
iu  that  glorious  expanse  of  sea  and  sky ;  and  that,  on  the 
other  hand,  there  are  minds  so  finely  modulated — minds 
that  sweep  so  broadly  across  the  scale  of  nature  —  that 
there  is  no  object,  however  minute,  no  breath  of  feeling, 
however  faint,  that  does  not  awaken  their  sweet  vibrations : 
the  snow-flake  falling  in  the  stream,  the  daisy  of  the  field, 
the  conies  of  the  rock,  the  hyssop  of  the  wall.  Now,  the 
vast  and  various  frame  of  nature  is  adapted,  not  to  the 
lesser,  but  to  the  larger  mind.  It  spreads  on  and  around 
us  in  all  its  rich  and  magnificent  varietv,  and  finds  the 
full  portraiture  of  its  Proteus-like  beauty  in  the  mirror  of 
genius  alone.  Evident,  however,  as  this  may  seem,  we 
find  a  sort  of  levelling  principle  in  the  inferior  order  of 
minds,  and  which,  in  fact,  constitutes  one  of  their  grand 
characteristics,  —  a  principle  that  would  fain  abridge  the 
scale  to  their  own  narrow  capabilities,  that  would  cut 
down  the  vastness  of  nature  to  suit  the  littleness  of  their 
own  conceptions  and  desires,  and  convert  it  into  one  tame, 
uniform  mediocre  good,  which  would  be  good  but  to  them- 
selves alone,  and  ultimately  not  even  that." 

"  I  think  I  can  now  understand  you,"  I  said.  "  Yon  de- 
scribe a  sort  of  swinish  wisdom,  that  would  convert  the 
world  into  one  vast  stye.  For  my  own  part,  I  have  trav- 
elled far  enough  to  know  the  value  of  a  blue  hill,  and 
would  not  willingly  lose  so  much  as  one  of  these  landmarks 
of  our  mother  land,  by  which  kindly  hearts  in  distant 
countries  love  to  remember  it." 

"I  dare  say  we  are  getting  fanciful,"  rejoined  my  com- 
panion; "but  certainly,  in  man's  schemes  of  improvement, 
both  physical  and   moral,  there  is  commonly  a   littleness 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF   BURNS.  75 

and  want  of  adaptation  to  the  general  good  that  almost 
always  defeats  his  aims.  He  sees  and  understands  but  a 
minute  portion;  it  is  always  some  partial  good  he  would 
introduce  ;  and  thus  he  but  destroys  the  just  proportions 
of  a  nicely-regulated  system  of  things,  by  exaggerating  one 
of  the  parts.  I  passed  of  late  through  a  richly-cultivated 
district  of  country,  in  which  the  agricultural  improver  had 
done  his  utmost.  Never  were  there  finer  fields,  more 
convenient  steadings,  crops  of  richer  promise,  a  better 
regulated  system  of  production.  Corn  and  cattle  had 
mightily  improved  ;  but  what  had  man,  the  lord  of  the  soil, 
become?  Is  not  the  body  better  than  food,  and  life  than 
raiment  ?  If  that  decline  for  which  all  other  things  exist, 
it  surely  matters  little  that  all  these  other  things  prosper. 
And  here,  though  the  corn,  the  cattle,  the  fields,  the 
steadings  had  improved,  man  had  sunk.  There  are  but 
two  classes  in  the  district  :  a  few  cold-hearted  specula- 
tors, who  united  what  is  worst  in  the  character  of  the 
landed  proprietor  and  the  merchant,  —  these  were  young 
gentleman  farmers;  and  a  class  of  degraded  helots,  little 
superior  to  the  cattle  they  tended,  —  these  were  your 
farm-servants.  And  for  two  such  extreme  classes  —  ne- 
cessary result  of  such  a  state  of  thing  —  had  this  unfortu- 
nate though  highly  eulogized  district  parted  with  a  moral, 
intelligent,  high-minded  peasantry,  —  the  true  boast  and 
true  riches  of  their  country." 

"I  have,  I  think,  observed  something  like  what  you 
describe,"  I  said. 

"  I  give,"  he  replied,  "  but  one  instance  of  a  thousand. 
But  mark  how  the  sun's  lower  disk  has  just  reached  the 
line  of  the  horizon,  and  how  the  long  level  rule  of  light 
stretches  to  the  very  innermost  recess  of  the  cave.  It 
darkens  as  the  orb   sinks.     And  see   how  the   gauze-like 


76  *    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

shadows  creep  on  from  the  sea,  film  after  film ;  and  now 
they  have  reached  the  ivy  that  mantles  round  the  castle 
of   the  Bruce.     Are  you  acquainted  with  Barbour  ?  " 

"  Well,"  I  said ;  —  "a  spirited,  fine  old  fellow,  who 
loved  his  country,  and  did  much  for  it.  I  could  once 
repeat  all  his  chosen  passages.  Do  you  remember  how 
he  describes  King  Robert's  rencounter  with  the  English 
knight  ?  " 

My  companion  sat  up  erect,  and,  clenching  his  fist, 
began  repeating  the  passage,  with  a  power  and  animation 
that  seemed  to  double  its  inherent  energy  and  force. 

"  Glorious  old  Barbour  !  "  ejaculated  he,  when  he  had 
finished  the  description;  "many  a  heart  has  beat  all  the 
higher,  when  the  bale-fires  were  blazing,  through  the  tu- 
torage of  thy  noble  verses!  Blind  Harry,  too,  —  what  has 
not  his  country  owed  to  him !  " 

"Ah,  they  have  long  since  been  banished  from  our  pop- 
ular literature,"  I  said  ;  "  and  yet  Blind  Henry's  'Wallace,' 
as  Hailes  tells  us,  was  at  one  time  the  very  Bible  of  the 
Scotch.  But  love  of  country  seems  to  be  old-fashioned 
among  us ;  and  we  have  become  philosophic  enough  to  set 
up  for  citizens  of  the  world." 

"All  cold  pretense,"  rejoined  my  companion,  —  "an 
effect  of  that  small  wisdom  we  have  just  been  decrying. 
Cosmopolitism,  as  we  are  accustomed  to  define  it,  can  be 
no  virtue  of  the  present  age,  nor  yet  of  the  next,  nor  per- 
haps for  centuries  to  come.  Even  when  it  shall  have  at- 
tained to  its  best,  and  when  it  may  be  most  safely  indulged 
in,  it  is  according  to  the  nature  of  man  that,  instead  of 
running  counter  to  the  love  of  country,  it  should  exist  as 
but  a  wider  diffusion  of  the  feeling,  and  form,  as  it  were,  a 
wider  circle  round  it.  It  is  absurdity  itself  to  oppose  the 
love  of  our  country  to  that  of  our  race." 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF   BURNS.  77 

"Do  I  rightly  understand  you?"  I  said.  "You  look 
forward  to  a  time  when  the  patriot  may  safely  expand 
into  the  citizen  of  the  world ;  but  in  the  present  age  he 
would  do  well,  you  think,  to  confine  his  energies  within 
the  inner  circle  of  the  country." 

"  Decidedly,"  he  rejoined.  "  Man  should  love  his  species 
at  all  times ;  but  it  is  ill  with  him  if,  in  times  like  the 
present,  he  loves  not  his  country  more.  The  spirit  of  war 
and  aggression  is  yet  abroad ;  there  are  laws  to  be  estab- 
lished, rights  to  be  defended,  invaders  to  be  repulsed, 
tyrants  to  be  deposed.  And  who  but  the  patriot  is  equal 
to  these  things?  We  are  not  yet  done  with  the  JBruces, 
the  Wallaces,  the  Tells,  the  Washingtons,  —  yes,  the 
Washingtons,  whether  they  fight  for  or  against  us,  —  we 
are  not  yet  done  with  them.  The  cosmopolite  is  but  a 
puny  abortion,  —  a  birth  ere  the  natural  time,  —  that  at 
once  endangers  the  life  and  betrays  the  weakness  of  the 
country  that  bears  him.  Would  that  he  were  sleeping  in 
his  elements  till  his  proper  time!  But  we  are  getting 
ashamed  of  our  country,  of  our  language,  our  manners,  our 
music,  our  literature ;  nor  shall  we  have  enough  of  the  old 
spirit  left  us  to  assert  our  liberties  or  fight  our  battles. 
Oh  for  some  Barbour  or  Blind  Harry  of  the  present  day, 
to  make  us  once  more  proud  of  our  country !  " 

I  quoted  the  famous  saying  of  Fletcher  of  Salton,  — 
"Allow  me  to  make  the  songs  of  a  country,  and  I  will 
allow  you  to  make  its  laws." 

"But  here,"  I  said,  "is  our  lugger  stealing  round  Turn- 
berry  Head.  We  shall  soon  part,  perhaps  for  ever  ;  and  1 
would  fain  know  with  whom  I  have  spent  an  hour  so 
agreeably,  and  have  some  name  to  remember  him  by.  My 
own  name  is  Matthew  Lindsay.     I  am  a  native  of  Irvine." 

7* 


78  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

"And  I,"  said  the  young  man,  rising  and  cordially 
grasping  the  proffered  hand,  "  am  a  native  of  Ayr.  My 
name  is  Robert  Burns." 


CHAPTER    II. 

If  friendless,  low,  we  meet  together, 

Then,  Sir,  your  hand,  —  my  friend  and  brother. 

Dedication  to  G.  Hamilton. 

A  light  breeze  had  risen  as  the  sun  sank,  and  our  lug- 
ger, with  all  her  sails  set,  came  sweeping  along  the  shore. 
She  had  nearly  gained  the  little  bay  in  front  of  the  cave, 
and  the  countrymen  from  above,  to  the  number  of  perhaps 
twenty,  had  descended  to  the  beach,  when,  all  of  a  sudden, 
after  a  shrill  whistle,  and  a  brief  half-minute  of  commotion 
among  the  crew,  she  wore  round  and  stood  out  to  sea.  I 
turned  to  the  south,  and  saw  a  square-rigged  vessel  shoot- 
ing out  from  behind  one  of  the  rocky  headlands,  and  then 
bearing  down  in  a  long  tack  on  the  smuggler.  "The 
sharks  are  upon  us,"  said  one  of  the  countrymen,  whose 
eyes  had  turned  in  the  same  direction  ;  "  we  shall  have  no 
sport  to-night."  We  stood  lining  the  beach  in  anxious 
curiosity.  The  breeze  freshened  as  the  evening  fell;  and 
the  lugger,  as  she  lessened  to  our  sight,  went  leaning 
against  the  foam  in  a  long  bright  furrow,  that,  catching 
the  last  light  of  evening,  shone  like  the  milky-way  amid 
the  blue.  Occasionally  we  could  see  the  flash  and  hear 
the  booming  of  a  gun  from  the  other  vessel;  but  the 
night  fell  thick  and  dark  ;  the  waves,  too,  began  to  lash 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF   BURNS.  79 

against  the  rocks,  drowning  every  feebler  sound  in  a  con- 
tinuous roaring,  and  every  trace  of  both  the  chase  and  the 
chaser  disappeared.  The  party  broke  up,  and  I  was  left 
standing  alone  on  the  beach,  a  little  nearer  home,  but  in  ev- 
ery  other  respect  in  quite  the  same  circumstances  as  when 
landed  by  my  American  friends  on  the  wild  coast  of  Con- 
nauo-ht.  "Another  of  Fortune's  freaks!"  I  ejaculated; 
"but  'tis  well  she  can  no  longer  surprise  me." 

A  man  stepped  out  in  the  darkness,  as  I  spoke,  from 
beside  one  of  the  rocks.  It  was  the  peasant  Burns,  my 
acquaintance  of  the  earlier  part  of  the  evening. 

"  I  have  waited,  Mr.  Lindsay,"  he  said,  "  to  see  whether 
some  of  the  country  folks  here,  who  have  homes  of  their 
own  to  invite  you  to,  might  not  have  brought  you  along 
with  them.  But  I  am  afraid  you  must  just  be  content  to 
pass  the  night  with  me.  I  can  give  you  a  share  of  my 
bed  and  my  supper;  though  both,  I  am  aware,  need  many 
apologies."  I  made  a  suitable  acknowledgment,  and  we 
ascended  the  cliff  together.  "  I  live,  when  at  home,  with 
my  parents,"  said  my  companion,  "in  the  inland  parish 
of  Tarbolton  ;  but  for  the  last  two  months  I  have  attended 
school  here,  and  lodge  with  an  old  widow-woman  in  the 
village.  To-morrow,  as  harvest  is  fast  approaching,  I 
return  to  my  father." 

"  And  I,"  I  replied,  "  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  accom- 
panying you  at  least  the  early  part  of  your  journey,  on 
my  way  to  Irvine,  where  my  mother  still  lives." 

We  reached  the  village,  and  entered  a  little  cottage,  that 
presented  its  gable  to  the  street  and  its  side  to  one  of  the 
narrower  lanes. 

"I  must  introduce  you  to  my  landlady,"  said  my  com- 
panion—  "an  excellent,  kind-hearted  old  woman,  with  a 
fund  of  honest  Scotch  pride  and  shrewd  good  sense  in  her 


80  TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

composition,  and  with  the  mother  as  strong  in  her  heart 
as  ever,  though  she  lost  the  last  of  her  children  more  than 
twenty  years  ago."  * 

We  found  the  good  woman  sitting  beside  a  small  but 
very  cheerful  fire.  The  hearth  was  newly  swept,  and  the 
floor  newly  sanded ;  and,  directly  fronting  her,  there  was 
an  empty  chair,  which  seemed  to  have  been  drawn  to  its 
place  in  the  expectation  of  some  one  to  fill  it. 

"  You  are  going  to  leave  me,  Robert,  my  bairn,"  said 
the  woman,  "an'  I  kenna  how  I  sail  ever  get  on  without 
you.  I  have  almost  forgotten,  sin'  you  came  to  live  with 
me  that  I  have  neither  children  nor  husband."  On 
seeing  me  she  stopped  short. 

"  An  acquaintance,"  said  my  companion,  "  whom  I 
have  made  bold  to  bring  with  me  for  the  night;  but  you 
must  not  put  yourself  to  any  trouble,  mother;  he  is,  I 
dare  say,  as  much  accustomed  to  plain  fare  as  myself. 
Only,  however,  we  must  get  an  additional  pint  of  yill 
from  the  clachan ;  you  know  this  is  my  last  evening  with 
you,  and  was  to  be  a  merry  one,  at  any  rate."  The 
woman  looked  me  full  in  the  face. 

"Matthew  Lindsay!"  she  exclaimed,  "can  you  have 
forgotten  your  poor  old  aunt  Margaret ! "  I  grasped  her 
hand. 

"Dearest  aunt,  this  .is  surely  most  unexpected!  How 
could  I  have  so  much  as  dreamed  you  were  within  a 
hundred  miles  of  me  ?"     Mutual  congratulation  ensued. 

"  This,"  she  said,  turning  to  my  companion,  "  is  the 
nephew  I  have  so  often  told  you  about,  and  so  often 
wished  to  bring  you  acquainted  with.  He  is,  like  yourself, 
a  great  reader  and  a  great  thinker,  and  there  is  no  need 
that  your  proud,  kindly  heart  should  be  jealous  of  him ; 
for  he  has  been  ever  quite  as  poor,  and  maybe  the  poorer 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    BURNS.  81 

of  the  two."  After  still  moi*e  of  greeting  and  congratu- 
lation, the  young  man  rose. 

"  The  night  is  dark,  mother,"  he  said,  "  and  the  road 
to  the  clachan  a  rough  one.  Besides,  you  and  your 
kinsman  will  have  much  to  say  to  one  another.  I  shall 
just  slip  out  to  the  clachan  for  you  ;  and  you  shall  both 
tell  me,  on  my  return,  whether  I  am  not  a  prime  judge 
of  ale." 

"  The  kindest  heart,  Matthew,  that  ever  lived,"  said  my 
relative,  as  he  left  the  house.  "Ever  since  he  came  to 
Kirkoswald  he  has  been  both  son  and  daughter  to  me, 
and  I  shall  feel  twice  a  widow  when  he  goes  away." 

"I  am  mistaken,  aunt,"  I  said,  "if  he  be  not  the 
strongest-minded  man  I  ever  saw.  Be  assured  he  stands 
high  among  the  aristocracy  of  nature,  whatever  may  be 
thought  of  him  in  Kirkoswald.  There  is  a  robustness  of 
intellect,  joined  to  an  overmastering  force  of  character, 
about  him,  which  I  have  never  yet  seen  equalled,  though  I 
have  been  intimate  with  at  least  one  very  superior  mind, 
and  with  hundreds  of  the  class  who  pass  for  men  of 
talent.  I  have  been  thinking,  ever  since  I  met  with  him, 
of  the  William  Tells  and  William  Wallaces  of  history,  men 
who,  in  those  times  of  trouble  which  unfix  the  foundations 
of  society,  step  out  from  their  obscurity  to  rule  the  destiny 
of  nations." 

"  I  was  ill  about  a  month  ago,"  said  my  relative,  —  "  so 
very  ill  that  I  thought  I  was  to  have  done  with  the  world 
altogether;  and  Robert  was  both  nurse  and  physician  to 
me.  He  kindled  my  fire,  too,  evsry  morning,  and  sat  up 
beside  me  sometimes  for  the  greater  part  of  the  night. 
What  wonder  I  should  love  him  as  my  own  child?  Had 
your  cousin  Henry  been  spared  to  me,  he  would  now  have 
been  much  about  Robert's  age." 


82  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

The  conversation  passed  to  other  matters;  and  in  about 
half  an  hour  my  new  friend  entered  the  room,  when  we 
sat  down  to  a  homely  but  cheerful  repast. 

"  I  have  been  engaged  in  argument  for  the  last  twenty 
minutes  with  our  parish  schoolmaster,"  he  said,  —  "a 
shrewd,  sensible  man,  and  a  prime  scholar,  but  one  of  the 
most  determined  Calvinists  I  ever  knew.  Now,  there  is 
something,  Mr.  Lindsay,  in  abstract  Calvinism  that  dis- 
satisfies and  distresses  me ;  and  yet,  I  must  confess,  there 
is  so  much  of  good  in  the  working  of  the  system,  that  I 
would  ill  like  to  see  it  supplanted  by  any  other.  I  am 
convinced,  for  instance,  there  is  nothing  so  efficient  in 
teaching  the  bulk  of  a  people  to  think  as  a  Calvinistic 
church." 

u  Ah,  Robert,"  said  my  aunt,  "it  does  meikle  mair  nor 
that.  Look  round  you,  my  bairn,  an'  see  if  there  be  a 
kirk  in  which  puir  sinful  creatures  have  mair  comfort  in 
their  sufferings,  or  mair  hope  in  their  deaths." 

"  Dear  mother,"  said  my  companion,  "  I  like  well 
enough  to  dispute  with  the  schoolmaster,  but  I  must  have 
no  dispute  with  you.  I  know  the  heart  is  everything  in 
these  matters,  and  yours  is  much  wiser  than  mine." 

"  There  is  something  in  abstract  Calvinism,"  he  con- 
tinued, "that  distresses  me.  In  almost  all  our  researches, 
we  arrive  at  an  ultimate  barrier  which  interposes  its  wall 
of  dai-kness  between  us  and  the  last  grand  truth  in  the 
series,  which  we  had  trusted  was  to  prove  a  master-key  to 
the  whole.  We  dwell  in  a  sort  of  Goshen  :  there  is  light 
in  our  immediate  neighborhood,  and  a  more  than  Egyp- 
tian darkness  all  around  ;  and  as  every  Hebrew  must  save 
known  that  the  hedge  of  cloud  which  he  saw  resting  on 
the  landscape  was  a  boundary,  not  to  things  themselves, 
but   merely    to  his   view   of  things, — for   beyond   there 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF   BURNS.  83 

were  cities  and  plains  and  oceans  and  continents,  —  so  we 
in  like  manner  must  know  that  the  barriers  of  which  I  speak 
exist  only  in  relation  to  the  faculties  which  we  employ,  not 
to  the  objects  on  which  we  employ  them.  And  yet,  not- 
withstanding this  consciousness  that  we  are  necessarily  and 
irremediably  the  bound  prisoners  of  ignorance,  and  that  all 
the  great  truths  lie  outside  our  prison,  we  can  almost  be 
content  that  in  most  cases  it  should  be  so  ;  not,  however, 
with  regard  to  those  great  unattainable  truths  which  lie  in 
the  track  of  Calvinism.  They  seem  too  important  to  be 
wanted,  and  yet  want  them  we  must ;  and  we  beat  our 
very  heads  against  the  cruel  barrier  which  separates  us 
from  them." 

"I  am  afraid  I  hardly  understand  you,"  I  said.  "Do 
assist  me  by  some  instance  or  illustration." 

"  You  are  acquainted,"  he  replied,  "  with  the  Scripture 
doctrine  of  predestination ;  and,  in  thinking  over  it  in 
connection  with  the  destinies  of  man,  it  must  have  struck 
you  that,  however  much  it  may  interfere  with  our  fixed 
notions  of  the  goodness  of  Deity,  it  is  thoroughly  in 
accordance  with  the  actual  condition  of  our  race.  As  far 
as  we  can  know  of  ourselves  and  the  things  around  us, 
there  seems,  through  the  will  of  Deity,  —  for  to  what 
else  can  we  refer  it?  —  a  fixed,  invariable  connection 
between  what  we  term  cause  and  effect.  Nor  do  we 
demand  of  any  class  of  mere  effects,  in  the  inanimate  or 
irrational  world,  that  they  should  regidate  themselves 
otherwise  than  the  causes  which  produce  them  have  de- 
termined. The  roe  and  the  tiger  pursue,  unquestioned, 
the  instincts  of  their  several  natures  ;  the  cork  rises,  and 
the  stone  sinks  ;  and  no  one  thinks  of  calling  either  to 
account  for  movements  so  opposite.  But  it  is  not  so  with 
the  family  of  man  ;   and  yet  our  minds,  our  bodies,  our 


84  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

circumstances  are  but  combinations  of  effects,  over  the 
causes  of  which  we  have  no  control.  We  did  not  choose 
a  country  for  ourselves,  nor  yet  a  condition  in  life;  nor 
did  we  determine  our  modicum  of  intellect,  or  our  amount 
of  passion  ;  we  did  not  impart  its  gravity  to  the  weightier 
part  of  our  nature,  or  give  expansion  to  the  lighter; 
nor  are  our  instincts  of  our  own  planting.  How,  then, 
being  thus  as  much  the  creatures  of  necessity  as  the 
denizens  of  the  wild  and  foi*est, —  as  thoroughly  under 
the  agency  of  fixed,  unalterable  causes  as  the  dead 
matter  around  us,  —  why  are  we  yet  the  subjects  of  a 
retributive  system,  and  accountable  for  all  our  actions  ?  " 

"  You  quarrel  with  Calvinism,"  I  said ;  "  and  seem  one 
of  the  most  thoroughgoing  necessitarians  I  ever  knew." 

'•Not  so,"  he  replied.  "Though  my  judgment  cannot 
disprove  these  conclusions,  my  heart  cannot  acquiesce  in 
them  ;  though  I  see  that  I  am  as  certainly  the  subject  of 
laws  that  exist  and  operate  independent  of  my  will  as  the 
dead  matter  around  me,  I  feel,  with  a  certainty  quite  as 
great,  that  I  am  a  free,  accountable  creature.  It  is  accord- 
ing to  the  scope  of  my  entire  reason  that  I  should  deem 
myself  bound  ;  it  is  according  to  the  constitution  of  my 
whole  nature  that  I  should  feel  myself  free.  And  in  this 
consists  the  great,  the  fearful  problem,  —  a  problem  which 
both  reason  and  revelation  propound;  but  the  truths  which 
can  alone  solve  it  seem  to  lie  beyond  the  horizon  of  dark- 
ness, and  we  vex  ourselves  in  vain.  'Tis  a  sort  of  moral 
asymptote ;  but  its  lines,  instead  of  approaching  through  all 
space  without  meeting,  seem  receding  through  all  space 
and  yet  meet." 

"  Robert,  my  bairn,"  said  my  aunt,  "  I  fear  you  are 
wasting  your  strength  on  these  mysteries,  to  your  ain 
<>iurt.     Did   ye  no  see,  in  the   last  storm,  when  ye  staid 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF   BURNS.  85 

out  among  the  caves  till  cock-crow,  that  the  bigger  and 
stronger  the  wave,  the  mair  was  it  broken  against  the 
rocks?  It's  just  thus  wi'  the  pride  o' man's  understand- 
ing when  he  measures  it  against  the  dark  things  o'  God, 
An'  yet,  it's  sae  ordered  that  the  same  wonderful  truths 
which  perplex  an'  cast  down  the  proud  reason,  should 
delight  an'  comfort  the  humble  heart.  I  am  a  lone,  puir 
woman,  Robert.  Bairns  and  husband  have  gone  down  to 
the  grave,  one  by  one ;  an'  now,  for  twenty  weary  years, 
I  have  been  childless  an'  a  widow.  But  trow  ye  that  the 
puir  lone  woman  wanted  a  guard,  an'  a  comforter,  an'  a 
provider,  through  a'  the  lang  mirk  nichts  and  a'  the  cauld 
scarce  winters  o'  these  twenty  years  ?  No,  my  bairn  ;  I 
kent  that  Himscl'  was  wi'  me.  I  kent  it  by  the  provision 
He  made,  an'  the  care  He  took,  an'  the  joy  He  gave.  An' 
how,  think  you,  did  He  comfort  me  maist?  Just  by  the 
blessed  assurance  that  a'  my  trials  an'  a'  my  sorrows  were 
nae  hasty  chance  matters,  but  dispensations  for  my  gude 
and  the  gude  o'  those  He  took  to  Himsel' ;  that,  in  the 
perfect  love  and  wisdom  o'  his  nature,  Pie  had  ordained 
frae  the  beginning." 

"Ah,  mother,''  said  my  friend,  after  a  pause,  "you  un- 
derstand the  doctrine  far  better  than  I  do.     There  are,  I 
find,  no  contradictions  in  the  Calvinism  of  the  heart." 
8 


86  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 


CHAPTER    III. 


Ayr,  gurgling,  kissed  his  pebbled  shore, 

O'erhung  with  wild  woods  thick'ning  green  ; 
The  fragrant  birch  and  hawthorn  hoar 

Twined,  amorous,  round  the  raptured  scene; 
The  flowers  sprang  wanton  to  be  prest, 

The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray, 
Till  too,  too  soon,  the  glowing  west 

Proclaimed  the  speed  of  winge'd  day. 

To  Makt  in  Heaven. 


We  were  early  on  the  road  together.  The  day,  though 
somewhat  gloomy,  was  mild  and  pleasant;  and  we  walked 
slowly  onward,  neither  of  us  in  the  least  disposed  to 
hasten  our  parting  by  hastening  our  journey.  We  had 
discussed  fifty  different  topics,  and  were  prepared  to  enter 
on  fifty  more,  when  we  reached  the  ancient  burgh  of  Ayr, 
where  our  roads  separated. 

"I  have  taken  an  immense  liking  to  you,  Mr.  Lindsay," 
said  my  companion,  as  he  seated  himself  on  the  parapet 
of  the  old  bridge,  "and  have  just  bethought  me  of  a 
scheme  through  which  I  may  enjoy  your  company  for  at 
least  one  night  more.  The  Ayr  is  a  lovely  river,  and  you 
tell  me  you  have  never  explored  it.  We  shall  explore  it 
together  this  evening  for  about  ten  miles,  when  we  shall 
find  ourselves  at  the  farm-house  of  Lochlea.  You  may 
depend  on  a  hearty  welcome  from  my  father,  whom,  by 
the  way,  I  wish  much  to  introduce  to  you,  as  a  man  worth 
your  knowing ;  and  as  I  have  set  my  heart  on  the  scheme, 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF   BURNS.  87 

you  are  surely  too  good-natured  to  disappoint  me."  Lit- 
tle risk  of  that,  I  thought.  I  had,  in  fact,  become  thor- 
oughly enamored  of  the  warm-hearted  benevolence  and 
fascinating  conversation  of  my  companion,  and  acquiesced 
with  the  best  good-will  in  the  world. 

We  had  threaded  the  course  of  the  river  for  several 
miles.  It  runs  through  a  wild  pastoral  valley,  roughened 
by  thickets  of  copsewood,  and  bounded  on  either  hand  by 
a  line  of  swelling,  moory  hills,  with  here  and  there  a  few 
irregular  patches  of  corn,  and  here  and  there  some  little 
nest-like  cottage  peeping  out  from  among  the  wood.  The 
clouds,  which  during  the  morning  had  obscured  the  entire 
face  of  the  heavens,  were  breaking  up  their  array,  and  the 
sun  was  looking  down  in  twenty  different  places  through 
the  openings,  checkering  the  landscape  with- a  fantastic 
though  lovely  carpeting  of  light  and  shadow.  Before  us 
there  rose  a  thick  wood,  on  a  jutting  promontory,  that 
looked  blue  and  dark  in  the  shade,  as  if  it  wore  mourning; 
while  the  sunlit  stream  beyond  shone  through  the  trunks 
and  brunches  like  a  river  of  fire.  At  length  the  clouds 
seemed  to  have  melted  in  the  blue,  —  for  there  was  not  a 
breath  of  wind  to  speed  them  away,  —  and  the  sun,  now 
hastening  to  the  west,  shone  in  unbroken  effulgence  over 
the  wide  extent  of  the  dell,  lighting  up  stream  and  wood 
and  field  and  cottage  in  one  continuous  blaze  of  glory. 
We  had  walked  on  in  silence  for  the  last  half-hour;  but  I 
could  sometimes  hear  my  companion  muttering  as  he 
went;  and  when,  in  passing  through  a  thicket  of  haw- 
thorn and  honeysuckle,  we  started  from  its  perch  a  linnet 
that  had  been  filling  the  air  with  its  melody,  I  could  hear 
him  exclaim,  in  a  subdued  tone  of  voice,  "Bonny,  bonny 
birdie!    why  hasten  frae   me?   I  wadna  skaith  a  feather 


88  TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

o'  yer  wing."     He  turned  round  to  me,  and  I  could  see 
that  his  eyes  were  swimming  in  moisture. 

"  Can  he  be  other,"  he  said,  "  than  a  good  and  benevo- 
lent God  who  gives  us  moments  like  these  to  enjoy  ?  O, 
my  friend  !  without  these  sabbaths  of  the  soul,  that  come 
to  refresh  and  invigorate  it,  it  would  dry  up  within  us ! 
How  exquisite,"  he  continued,  "  how  entire,  the  sympathy 
which  exists  between  all  that  is  good  and  fair  in  external 
nature  and  all  of  good  and  fair  that  dwells  in  our  own ! 
And  oh,  how  the  heart  expands  and  lightens  !  The 
world  is  as  a  grave  to  it,  a  closely-covered  grave ;  and 
it  shrinks  and  deadens  and  contracts  all  its  holier  and 
more  joyous  feelings  under  the  cold,  earth-like  pressure. 
But  amid  the  grand  and  lovely  of  nature,  —  amid  these 
forms  and  colors  of  richest  beauty,  —  there  is  a  disin- 
terment, a  resurrection,  of  sentiment;  the  pressure  of  our 
earthly  part  seems  removed ;  and  those  senses  of  the 
mind,  if  I  may  so  speak,  which  serve  to  connect  our  spirits 
with  the  invisible  world  around  us,  recover  their  proper 
tone,  and  perform  their  proper  office." 

"  Senses  of  the  mind  !  "  I  said,  repeating  the  phrase ; 
"  the  idea  is  new  to  me ;  but  I  think  I  can  catch  your 
meaning." 

"  Yes ;  there  are,  there  must  be  such,"  he  continued, 
with  growing  enthusiasm.  "  Man  is  essentially  a  reli- 
gious creature,  a  looker  beyond  the  grave,  from  the  very 
constitution  of  his  mind  ;  and  the  sceptic  who  denies  it  is 
untrue  not  merely  to  the  Being  who  has  made  and  who 
preserves  him,  but  to  the  entire  scope  and  bent  of  his 
own  nature  besides.  Wherever  man  is,  —  whether  he  be 
a  wanderer  of  the  wild  forest  or  still  wilder  desert,  —  a 
dweller  in  some  lone  isle  of  the  sea,  or  the  tutored  and 
full-minded  denizen  of  some  blessed  land  like  our  own  ;  — 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF   BURNS.  89 

wherever  man  is,  there  is  religion  ;  hopes  that  look  for- 
ward and  upward  ;  the  belief  in  an  unending  existence 
and  a  land  of  separate  souls." 

I  was  carried  away  by  the  enthusiasm  of  my  companion, 
and  felt  for  the  time  as  if  my  mind  had  become  the  mirror 
of  his.  There  seems  to  obtain  among  men  a  species  of 
moral  gravitation,  analogous  in  its  principles  to  that 
which  reerulates  and  controls  the  movements  of  the 
planetary  system.  The  larger  and  more  ponderous  any 
body,  the  greater  its  attractive  force,  and  the  more  over- 
powering its  influence  over  the  lesser  bodies  which 
surround  it.  The  earth  we  inhabit  carries  the  moon 
along  with  it  in  its  course,  and  is  itself  subject  to  the 
immensely  more  powerful  influence  of  the  sun.  And  it 
is  thus  with  character.  It  is  a  law  of  our  nature,  as 
certainly  as  of  the  system  we  inhabit,  that  the  infe- 
rior should  yield  to  the  superior,  and  the  lesser  owe  its 
guidance  to  the  greater.  I  had  hitherto  wandered  on 
through  life  almost  unconscious  of  the  existence  of  this 
law  ;  or,  if  occasionally  rendered  half  aware  of  it,  it  was 
only  through  a  feeling  that  some  secret  influence  was 
operating  favorably  in  my  behalf  on  the  common  minds 
around  me.  I  now  felt,  however,  for  the  first  time,  that 
I  had  come  in  contact  with  a  mind  immeasurably  more 
powerful  than  my  own.  My  thoughts  seemed  to  cast 
themselves  into  the  very  mould,  my  sentiments  to  mod- 
ulate themselves  by  the  very  tone,  of  his.  And  yet 
he  was  but  a  russet-clad  peasant,  —  my  junior  by  at 
least  eight  years, — who  was  returning  from  school  to 
assist  his  father,  an  humble  tacksman,  in  the  labors  of 
the  approaching  harvest.  But  the  law  of  circumstance, 
so  arbitrary  in  ruling  the  destinies  of  common  men, 
exerts  but  feeble  control  over  the  children  of  genius 
8* 


90  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

The  prophet  went  forth  commissioned  by  heaven  to 
anoint  a  king  over  Israel ;  and  the  choice  fell  on  a 
shepherd-boy,  who  was  tending  his  father's  flocks  in  the 
field. 

We  had  reached  a  lovely  bend  of  the  stream.  There 
was  a  semicircular  inflection  in  the  steep  bank,  which 
waved  over  us,  from  base  to  summit,  with  hawthorn  and 
hazel ;  and  while  one  half  looked  blue  and  dark  in  the 
shade,  the  other  was  lighted  up  with  gorgeous  and  fiery 
splendor  by  the  sun,  now  fast  sinking  in  the  west.  The 
effect  seemed  magical.  A  little  glassy  platform,  that 
stretched  between  the  hanging  wood  and  the  stream,  was 
whitened  over  with  clothes,  that  looked  like  snow-wreaths 
in  the  hollow  ;  and  a  young  and  beautiful  girl  watched 
beside  them. 

"  Mary  Campbell !  "  exclaimed  my  companion  ;  and  in 
a  moment  he  was  at  her  side,  and  had  grasped  both 
her  hands  in  his.  "  How  fortunate,  how  very  fortunate 
I  am!"  he  said;  "I  could  not  have  so  much  as  hoped  to 
have  seen  you  to-night,  and  yet  here  you  are !  This,  Mr. 
Lindsay,  is  a  loved  friend  of  mine,  whom  I  have  known 
and  valued  for  years,  —  ever,  indeed,  since  we  herded  our 
sheep  together  under  the  cover  of  one  plaid.  Dearest 
Mary,  I  have  had  sad  forebodings  regarding  you  for  the 
whole  last  month  I  was  in  Kirkoswald ;  and  yet,  after  all 
my  foolish  fears,  here  you  are,  ruddier  and  bonnier  than 
ever." 

She  was,  in  truth,  a  beautiful,  syljm-like  young  woman, 
—  one  whom  I  would  have  looked  at  with  complacency 
in  any  circumstances  ;  for  who  that  admires  the  fair  and 
lovely  in  nature,  whether  it  be  the  wide-spread  beauty 
of  sky  and  earth,  or  beauty  in  its  minuter  modifications, 
as  we  see  in  the  flowei's  that  spring  up  at  our  feet,  or  the 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    BURNS.  91 

butterfly  that  flutters  over  them,  —  who,  I  say,  that  ad- 
mires the  fair  and  lovely  in  nature,  can  be  indifferent  to 
the  fairest  and  loveliest  of  all  her  productions  ?  As  the 
mistress,  however,  of  by  far  the  strongest-minded  man  I 
ever  knew,  there  was  more  of  scrutiny  in  my  glance  than 
usual,  and  I  felt  a  deeper  interest  in  her  than  mere  beauty 
could  have  awakened.  She  was  perhaps  rather  below 
than  above  the  middle  size,  but  formed  in  such  admirable 
proportion  that  it  seemed  out  of  place  to  think  of  size  in 
reference  to  her  at  all.  Who,  in  looking  at  the  Venus  de 
Medicis,  asks  whether  she  be  tall  or  short  ?  The  bust  and 
neck  were  so  exquisitely  moulded  that  they  reminded  me  of 
Burke's  fanciful  remark,  viz.  that  our  ideas  of  beauty  orig- 
inate in  our  love  of  the  sex,  and  that  we  deem  every  object 
beautiful  which  is  described  by  soft  waving  lines,  resem- 
bling those  of  the  female  neck  and  bosom.  Her  feet  and 
arms,  which  were  both  bare,  had  a  statue-like  symmetry 
and  marble-like  whiteness.  But  it  was  on  her  expressive 
and  lovely  countenance,  now  lighted  up  by  the  glow  of 
joyous  feeling,  that  nature  seemed  to  have  exhausted  her 
utmost  skill.  There  was  a  fascinating  mixture  in  the  ex- 
pression of  superior  intelligence  and  child-like  simplicity; 
a  soft,  modest  light  dwelt  in  the  blue  eye  ;  and  in  the  en- 
tire contour  and  general  form  of  the  features  there  was  a 
nearer  approach  to  that  union  of  the  straight  and  the 
rounded  —  which  is  found  in  its  perfection  in  only  the 
Grecian  face  —  than  is  at  all  common,  in  our  northern  lat- 
itudes, among  the  descendants  of  either  the  Celt  or  the 
Saxon.  I  felt,  however,  as  I  gazed,  that,  when  lovers  meet, 
the  presence  of  a  third  person,  however  much  the  friend  of 
either,  must  always  be  less  than  agreeable. 

"Mr.  Burns,"  I  said,  "there  is  a  beautiful  eminence  a 
few  hundred  yards  to  the  right,  from  which  I  am  desirous 


92  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

to  overlook  the  windings  of  the  stream.  Do  permit  me  to 
leave  you  for  a  short  half-hour,  when  I  shall  return  ;  or, 
lest  I  weary  you  by  my  stay,  'twere  better,  perhaps,  you 
should  join  me  there."  My  companion  greeted  the  pro- 
posal with  a  good-humored  smile  of  intelligence ;  and, 
plunging  into  the  wood,  I  left  him  with  his  Mary.  The 
sun  had  just  set  as  he  joined  me. 

"  Have  you  ever  been  in  love,  Mr.  Lindsay  ?  "  he  said. 

"  No,  never  seriously,"  I  replied.  "  I  am  perhaps  not 
naturally  of  the  coolest  temperament  imaginable,  but  the 
same  fortune  that  has  improved  my  mind  in  some  little 
degree,  and  given  me  high  notions  of  the  sex,  has  hitherto 
thrown  me  among  only  its  less  superior  specimens.  I  am 
now  in  my  eight-and-twentieth  year,  and  I  have  not  yet 
met  with  a  woman  whom  I  could  love." 

"Then  you  are  yet  a  stranger,"  he  rejoined,  "to  the 
greatest  happiness  of  which  our  nature  is  capable.  I  have 
enjoyed  more  heartfelt  pleasure  in  the  company  of  the 
young  woman  I  have  just  left,  than  from  every  other 
source  that  has  been  opened  to  me  from  my  childhood  till 
now.  Love,  my  friend,  is  the  fulfilling  of  the  whole 
law." 

"Mary  Campbell,  did  you  not  call  her  ?  "  I  said.  "  She 
is,  I  think,  the  loveliest  creature  I  have  ever  seen ;  and  I 
am  much  mistaken  in  the  expression  of  her  beauty  if  her 
mind  be  not  as  lovely  as  her  person." 

"  It  is,  it  is !  "  he  exclaimed,  —  "  the  intelligence  of  an 
angel,  with  the  simplicity  of  a  child.  Oh,  the  delight  of 
being  thoroughly  trusted,  thoroughly  beloved,  by  one  of 
the  loveliest,  best,  purest-minded  of  all  God's  good  crea- 
tures !  to  feel  that  heart  beating  against  my  own,  and  to 
know  that  it  beats  for  me  only  !  Never  have  I  passed  an 
evening  with  my  Mary  without  returning  to  the  world  a 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    BURNS.  93 

better,  gentler,  wiser  man.  Love,  my  friend,  is  the  fulfil- 
ling of  the  whole  law.  What  are  we  without  it?  —  poor, 
vile,  selfish  animals  ;  our  very  virtues  themselves  so  exclu- 
sively virtues  on  our  own  behalf  as  to  be  well-nigh  as 
hateful  as  our  vices.  Nothing  so  opens  and  improves  the 
heart  ;  nothing  so  widens  the  grasp  of  the  affections ; 
nothing  half  so  effectually  brings  us  out  of  our  crust  of 
self,  as  a  happy,  well-regulated  love  for  a  pure-minded, 
affectionate-hearted  woman  ! " 

"There  is  another  kind  of  love  of  which  we  sailors  see 
somewhat,"  I  said,  "  which  is  not  so  easily  associated  with 
good." 

"Love  !  "  he  replied.  "No,  Mr.  Lindsay,  that  is  not  the 
name.  Kind  associates  with  kind  in  all  nature;  and  love 
—  humanizing,  heart-softening  love  —  cannot  be  the  com- 
panion of  whatever  is  low,  mean,  worthless,  degrading,  — 
the  associate  of  ruthless  dishonor,  cunning,  treachery,  and 
violent  death.  Even  independent  of  its  amount  of  evil  as 
a  crime,  or  the  evils  still  greater  than  itself  which  necessa- 
rily accompany  it,  there  is  nothing  that  so  petrifies  the 
feeling  as  illicit  connection." 

"  Do  you  seriously  think  so  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes ;  and  I  see  clearly  how  it  should  be  so.  Neither 
sex  is  complete  of  itself;  each  was  made  for  the  other, 
that,  like  the  two  halves  of  a  hinge,  they  may  become  an 
entire  whole  when  united.  Only  think  of  the  Scriptural 
phrase,  "  one  flesh" ':  it  is  of  itself  a  system  of  philosophy. 
Refinement  and  tenderness  are  of  the  woman;  strength 
and  dignity  of  the  man.  Only  observe  the  effects  of  a 
thorough  separation,  whether  originating  in  accident  or 
caprice.  You  will  find  the  stronger  sex  lost  in  the  rude- 
nesses of  partial  barbarism  ;  the  gentler  wrapt  up  in  some 
pitiful  round  of  trivial  and  unmeaning  occupation,  —  dry- 


94  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

nursing  puppies,  or  making  pin-cushions  for  posterity. 
But  how  much  more  pitiful  are  the  effects  when  they  meet 
amiss  ;  when  the  humanizing  friend  and  companion  of 
the  man  is  converted  into  the  light,  degraded  toy  of  an 
idle  hour,  the  object  of  a  sordid  appetite  that  lives  but 
for  a  moment,  and  then  expires  in  loathing  and  disgust ! 
The  better  feelings  are  iced  over  at  their  source,  chilled 
by  the  freezing  and  deadening  contact,  where  there  is  noth- 
ing to  inspire  confidence  or  solicit  esteem  ;  and  if  these 
pass  not  through  the  first,  the  inner  circle,  that  circle 
within  which  the  social  affections  are  formed,  and  from 
whence  they  emanate, — how  can  they  possibly  flow  through 
the  circles  which  lie  beyond  ?  But  here,  Mr.  Lindsay,  is  the 
farm  of  Lochlca;  and  yonder  brown  cottage,  beside  the 
three  elms,  is  the  dwelling  of  my  parents." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia's  grandeur  springs, 
That  makes  her  loved  at  home,  revered  abroad. 

Cotter's  Saturday  Night. 

There  was  a  wide  and  cheerful  circle  this  evenino- 
round  the  hospitable  hearth  of  Lochlea.  The  father  of 
my  friend — a  patriarchal-looking  old  man,  with  a  counte- 
nance the  most  expressive  I  have  almost  ever  seen — sat 
beside  the  wall,  on  a  large  oaken  settle,  which  also 
served  to  accommodate  a  young  man,  an  occasional  visitor 
of  the  family,  dressed  in  rather  shabby  black,  whom  I  at 
once   set  down  as  a   probationer  of  divinity.     I  had  my 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    BURNS.  95 

own  seat  beside  him.  The  brother  of  my  friend  —  a  lad 
cast  in  nearly  the  same  mould  of  form  and  feature,  except 
perhaps  that  his  frame,  though  muscular  and  strongly  set, 
seemed  in  the  main  less  formidably  robust,  and  his  coun- 
tenance, though  expressive,  less  decidedly  intellectual  —  sat 
at  my  side.  My  friend  had  drawn  in  his  seat  beside  his 
mother,  —  a  well-formed,  comely  brunette,  of  about  thirty- 
eight,  whom  I  might  almost  have  mistaken  for  his  older 
sister,  — and  two  or  three  younger  members  of  the  family 
were  grouped  behind  her.  The  fire  blazed  cheerily  within 
the  wide  and  open  chimney,  and,  throwing  its  strong  light 
on  the  faces  and  limbs  of  the  circle,  sent  our  shadows 
flickering  across  the  rafters  and  the  wall  behind.  The 
conversation  was  animated  and  rational,  and  every  one 
contributed  his  share.  But  I  was  chiefly  interested  in  the 
remarks  of  the  old  man,  for  whom  I  already  felt  a  growing 
veneration,  and  in  those  of  his  wonderfully  gifted  son. 

"  Unquestionably,  Mr.  Burns,"  said  the  man  in  black, 
addressing  the  farmer,  "politeness  is  but  a  very  shadow, 
as  the  poet  hath  it,  if  the  heart  be  wanting.  I  saw  to- 
night, in  a  strictly  polite  family,  so  marked  a  presumption 
of  the  lack  of  that  natural  affection  of  which  politeness  is 
but  the  portraiture  and  semblance,  that,  truly,  I  have  been 
grieved  in  my  heart  ever  since." 

"Ah,  Mr.  Murdoch,"  said  the  farmer,  "there  .is  ever 
more  hypocrisy  in  the  world  than  in  the  church,  and  that, 
too,  among  the  class  of  fine  gentlemen  and  fine  ladies  who 
deny  it  most.     But  the  instance"  — 

"You  know  the  family,  my  worthy  friend."  continued 
Mr.  Murdoch  ;  "it  is  a  very  pretty  one,  as  we  say  vernac- 
ularly, being  numerous,  and  the  sons  highly  genteel  young 
men  —  the  daughters  not  less  so.  A  neighbor  of  the 
same  very  polite  character,  coming  on  a  visit  when  I  was 


96  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

among  them,  asked  the  father,  in  the  course  of  the  con- 
versation to  which  I  was  privy,  how  he  meant  to  dispose 
of  his  sons;  when  the  father  replied  that  he  had  not  yet 
determined.  The  visitor  said  that,  were  he  in  his  place, 
seeing  they  were  all  well-educated  young  men,  he  would 
send  them  abroad;  to  which  the  father  objected  the  indu- 
bitable fact  that  many  young  men  lost  their  health  in 
foreign  countries,  and  very  many  their  lives.  '  True,'  did 
the  visitor  rejoin  ;  'but,  as  you  have  a  number  of  sons,  it 
will  be  strange  if  some  one  of  them  does  not  live  and 
make  a  fortune.'  Now,  Mr.  Burns,  what  will  you,  who 
know  the  feelings  of  paternity,  and  the  incalculable,  and 
assuredly  I  may  say  invaluable  value  of  human  souls, 
think  when  I  add,  that  the  father  commended  the  hint,  as 
showing  the  wisdom  of  a  shrewd  man  of  the  world  !  " 

"Even  the  chief  priests,"  said  the  old  man,  "pro- 
nounced it  unlawful  to  cast  into  the  treasury  the  thirty 
pieces  of  silver,  seeing  it  was  the  price  of  blood  ;  but  the 
gentility  of  the  present  day  is  less  scrupulous.  There  is  a 
laxity  of  principle  among  us,  Mr.  Murdoch,  that,  if  God  re- 
store us  not,  must  end  in  the  ruin  of  our  country.  I  say 
laxity  of  principle;  for  there  have  ever  been  evil  manners 
among  us,  and  waifs  in  no  inconsiderable  number  broken 
loose  from  the  decencies  of  society,  —  more,  perhaps,  in 
my  early  days  than  there  are  now.  But  our  principles, 
at  least,  were  sound  ;  and  not  only  was  there  thus  a 
restorative  and  conservative  spirit  among  us,  but,  what 
was  of  not  less  importance,  there  was  a  broad  gulf,  like 
that  in  the  parable,  between  the  two  grand  classes,  the 
good  and  the  evil,  —  a  gulf  which,  when  it  secured  the 
better  class  from  contamination,  interposed  no  barrier  to 
the  reformation  and  return  of  even  the  most  vile  and 
profligate,  if  repentant.     But  this   gulf  has   disappeared, 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    BURNS.  97 

and  we  are  standing  unconcernedly  over  it,  on  a  hollow 
and  dangerous  marsh  of  neutral  ground,  which,  in  the  end, 
if  God  open  not  our  eyes,  must  assuredly  give  way  under 
our  feet." 

u  To  what,  father,"  inquired  my  friend,  who  sat  listen- 
ing with  the  deepest  and  most  respectful  attention,  "  do 
you  attribute  the  change  ?  " 

"  Undoubtedly,"  replied  the  old  man,  "  there  have  been 
many  causes  at  work ;  and  though  not  impossible,  it 
would  certainly  be  no  easy  task  to  trace  them  all  to  their 
several  effects,  and  give  to  each  its  due  place  and  impor- 
tance. But  there  is  a  deadly  evil  among  us,  though  you  will 
hear  of  it  from  neither  press  nor  pulpit,  which  I  am  dis- 
posed to  rank  first  in  the  number,  —  the  affectation  of  gen- 
tility. It  has  a  threefold  influence  among  us  :  it  confounds 
the  grand,  eternal  distinctions  of  right  and  wrong,  by 
erecting  into  a  standard  of  conduct  and  opinion  that  hete- 
rogeneous and  artificial  whole  which  constitutes  the  man- 
ners and  morals  of  the  upper  classes ;  it  severs  those  ties 
of  affection  and  good-will  which  should  bind  the  middle  to 
the  lowers  orders,  by  disposing  the  one  to  regard  what- 
ever is  below  them  with  a  too  contemptuous  indifference, 
and  by  provoking  a  bitter  and  indignant,  though  natural 
jealousy  in  the  other,  for  being  so  regarded ;  and,  finally, 
by  leading  those  who  most  entertain  it  into  habits  of  ex- 
pense,—  torturing  their  means,  if  I  may  so  speak,  on  the 
rack  of  false  opinion,  disposing  them  to  think,  in  their 
blindness,  that  to  be  genteel  is  a  first  consideration,  and 
t<>  be  honest  merely  a  secondary  one,  —  it  has  the  effect  of 
60  hardening  their  hearts  that,  like  those  Carthaginians  of 
whom  we  have  been  lately  reading  in  the  volume  Mr. 
Murdoch  lent  us,  they  offer  up  their  very  children,  souls 

9 


98  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

and  bodies,  to  the  unreal,  phantom-like  necessities  of  their 
circumstances." 

"  Have  I  not  heard  you  remark,  father,"  said  Gilbert, 
"that  the  change  vou  describe  has  been  very  marked 
among  the  ministers  of  our  church  ?  " 

"Too  marked  and  too  striking,"  replied  the  old  man  ; 
"  and,  in  affecting  the  respectability  and  usefulness  of  so 
important  a  class,  it  has  educed  a  cause  of  deterioration 
distinct  from  itself,  and  hardly  less  formidable.  There  is 
an  old  proverb  of  our  country,  '  Better  the  head  of  the 
commonalty  than  the  tail  of  the  gentry.'  I  have  heard 
you  quote  it,  Robert,  oftener  than  once,  and  admire  its 
homely  wisdom.  Now,  it  bears  directly  on  what  I  have 
to  remark :  the  ministers  of  our  church  have  moved  but 
one  step  during  the  last  sixty  years  ;  but  that  step  has 
been  an  all-important  one.  It  has  been  from  the  best 
place  in  relation  to  the  people,  to  the  worst  in  relation  to 
the  aristocracy." 

"  Undoubtedly,  worthy  Mr.  Burns,"  said  Mr.  Murdoch. 
"There  is  great  truth,  accox-ding  to  mine  own  experience, 
in  that  which  you  affirm.  I  may  state,  I  trust  without 
over-boasting  or  conceit,  my  respected  friend,  that  my 
learning  is  not  inferior  to  that  of  our  neighbor  the  clergy- 
man ;  —  it  is  not  inferior  in  Latin,  nor  in  Greek,  nor  yet 
in  French  literature,  Mr.  Burns,  and  probable  it  is  he 
would  not  much  court  a  competition;  and  yet,  when  I 
last  waited  at  the  Manse  regarding  a  necessary  and  essen- 
tial certificate,  Mr.  Burns,  he  did  not  as  muck  as  ask  me 
to  sit  down." 

"Ah,"  said  Gilbert,  who  seemed  the  wit  of  the  family, 
"  he  is  a  highly  respectable  man,  Mr.  Murdoch.  He  has  a 
fine  house,  fine  furniture,  fine  carpets,  —  all  that  consti- 
tutes respectability,  you  know;  and  his  family  is  on  visit- 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF   BURNS.  99 

ins:  terms  with  that  of  the  Laird.  But  his  credit  is  not  so 
respectable,  I  hear." 

"Gilbert,"  said  the  old  man,  with  much  seriousness,  "it 
is  ill  with  a  people  when  they  can  speak  lightly  of  their 
clergymen.  There  is  still  much  of  sterling  worth  and  se- 
rious piety  in  the  Church  of  Scotland ;  and  if  the  influ- 
ence of  its  ministers  be  unfortunately  less  than  it  was 
once,  we  must  not  cast  the  blame  too  exclusively  on  them- 
selves. Other  causes  have  been  in  operation.  The 
church  eighty  years  ago  was  the  sole  guide  of  opinion, 
and  the  only  source  of  thought  among  us.  There  was, 
indeed,  but  one  way  in  which  a  man  could  learn  to  think. 
His  mind  became  the  subject  of  some  serious  impression  ; 
he  applied  to  his  Bible;  and,  in  the  contemplation  of  the 
most  important  of  all  concerns,  his  newly-awakened  facul- 
ties received  their  first  exercise.  All  of  intelligence,  all 
of  moral  good  in  him,  all  that  rendered  him  worthy  of 
the  name  of  man,  he  owed  to  the  ennobling  influence  of 
his  church  ;  and  is  it  wonder  that  that  influence  should 
be  all-powerful  from  this  circumstance  alone  ?  But  a 
thorough  change  has  taken  place;  —  new  sources  of  intel- 
ligence have  been  opened  up  ;  we  have  our  newspapers 
and  our  magazines,  and  our  volumes  of  miscellaneous 
reading;  and  it  is  now  possible  enough  for  the  most  culti- 
vated mind  in  a  parish  to  be  the  least  moral  and  the  least 
religious;  and  hence,  necessarily,  a  diminished  influence  in 
the  church,  independent  of  the  character  of  its  ministers." 

I  have  dwelt  too  long,  perhaps,  on  the  conversation  of  the 
elder  Burns  ;  but  I  feel  much  pleasure  in  thus  develop- 
ing, as  it  were,  my  recollections  of  one  whom  his  powerful- 
minded  son  has  described  —  and  this  after  an  acquaint- 
ance with  our  Henry  M'Kenzies,  Adam  Smiths,  and  Du- 
gald   Stewarts  —  as  the  man   most  thoroughly  acquainted 


100  TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

with  the  world  he  ever  knew.  Never,  at  least,  have  I  met 
with  any  one  who  exerted  a  more  wholesome  influence, 
through  the  force  of  moral  character,  on  those  around 
him.  We  sat  down  to  a  plain  and  homely  supper.  The 
slave  question  had  about  this  time  begun  to  draw  the  at- 
tention of  a  few  of  the  more  excellent  and  intelligent 
among  the  people,  and  the  elder  Burns  seemed  deeply 
interested  in  it. 

"This  is  but  homely  fare,  Mr.  Lindsay,"  he  said,  point- 
ing to  the  simple  viands  before  us,  "and  the  apologists  of 
slavery  among  us  would  tell  you  how  inferior  we  are  to 
the  poor  negroes,  who  fare  so  much  better.  But  surely 
'  man  does  not  live  by  bread  alone ! '  Our  fathers  who 
died  for  Christ  on  the  hill-side  and  the  scaffold  were 
noble  men,  and  never,  never  shall  slavery  produce  such ; 
and  yet  they  toiled  as  hard,  and  fared  as  meanly,  as  we 
their  children." 

I  could  feel,  in  the  cottage  of  such  a  peasant,  and  seated 
beside  such  men  as  his  two  sons,  the  full  force  of  the  remark. 
And  yet  I  have  heard  the  miserable  sophism  of  unprinci- 
pled power  against  which  it  is  directed  —  a  sophism  so 
insulting  to  the  dignity  of  honest  poverty  —  a  thousand 
times  repeated. 

Supper  over,  the  family  circle  widened  round  the 
hearth ;  and  the  old  man,  taking  down  a  large  clasped 
Bible,  seated  himself  beside  the  iron  lamp  which  now 
lighted  the  apartment.  There  was  deep  silence  among  us 
as  he  turned  over  the  leaves.  Never  shall  I  forget  his 
appearance.  He  was  tall  and  thin,  and,  though  his  frame 
was  still  vigorous,  considerably  bent.  His  features  were 
high  and  massy ;  the  complexion  still  retained  much  of 
the  freshness  of  youth,  and  the  eye  all  its  intelligence; 
but  his  locks  were  waxing  thin  and  gray  round  his  high, 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    BURNS.  101 

thoughtful  forehead,  and  the  upper  part  of  the  head,  which 
was  elevated  to  an  unusual  height,  was  bald.  There  was 
an  expression  of  the  deepest  seriousness  on  the  countenance 
which  the  strong  umbry  shadows  of  the  apartment  served 
to  heighten  ;  and  when,  laying  his  hand  on  the  page,  he 
half-turned  his  f ice  to  the  circle,  and  said,  "Let  us  wor- 
ship God,"  I  was  impressed  by  a  feeling  of  awe  and  rever- 
ence to  which  I  had,  alas!  been  a  stranger  for  years.  I 
was  affected,  too,  almost  to  tears,  as  I  joined  in  the  psalm; 
for  a  thousand  half-forgotten  associations  came  rushing 
upon  me ;  and  my  heart  seemed  to  swell  and  expand  as, 
kneeling  beside  him  when  he  prayed,  I  listened  to  his  sol- 
emn and  fervent  petition  that  God  might  make  manifest 
his  power  and  goodness  in  the  salvation  of  man.  Nor 
was  the  poor  solitary  wanderer  of  the  deep  forgotten. 

On  rising  from  our  devotions,  the  old  man  grasped  me 
by  the  hand.  "I  am  happy,"  he  said,  "that  we  should 
have  met,  Mr.  Lindsay.  I  feel  an  interest  in  you,  and 
must  take  the  friend  and  the  old  man's  privilege  of 
giving  you  an  advice.  The  sailor,  of  all  men,  stands  most 
in  need  of  religion.  His  life  is  one  of  continued  vicissi- 
tude, of  unexpected  success  or  unlooked-for  misfortune; 
he  is  ever  passing  from  danger  to  safety,  and  from  safety 
to  danger  ;  his  dependence  is  on  the  ever-varying  winds, 
his  abode  on  the  unstable  waters.  And  the  mind  takes 
a  peculiar  tone  from  what  is  peculiar  in  the  circumstances. 
With  nothing  stable  in  the  real  world  around  it  on 
which  it  may  rest,  it  forms  a  resting-place  for  itself  in 
some  wild  code  of  belief.  It  peoples  the  elements  with 
strange  occult  powers  of  good  and  evil,  and  does  them 
homage,  —  addressing  its  prayers  to  the  genius  of  the 
winds  and  the  spirits  of  the  waters.  And  thus  it  begets 
a  religion   for   itself;    for    what   else   is   the   professional 


102  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

superstition  of  the  sailor?  Substitute,  my  friend,  for  this 
—  shall  I  call  it  unavoidable  superstition  ?  —  this  natural 
religion  of  the  sea,  the  religion  of  the  Bible.  Since  you 
must  be  a  believer  in  the  supernatural,  let  your  belief 
be  true  ;  let  your  trust  be  on  Him  who  faileth  not,  your 
anchor  within  the  vail ;  and  all  shall  be  well,  be  your 
destiny  for  this  world  what  it  may." 

We  parted  for  the  night,  and  I  saw  him  no  more. 

Next  morning  Robert  accompanied  me  for  several  miles 
on  my  way.  I  saw,  for  the  last  half-hour,  that  he  had 
something  to  communicate,  and  yet  knew  not  how  to  set 
about  it ;  and  so  I  made  a  full  stop. 

"You  have  something  to  tell  me,  Mr.  Burns,"  I  said. 
"  Need  I  assure  you  I  am  one  you  are  in  no  danger  from 
trusting?"  He  blushed  deeply,  and  I  saw  him,  for  the 
first  time,  hesitate  and  falter  in  his  address. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  at  length  said;  "believe  me,  Mr. 
Lindsay,  I  would  be  the  last  in  the  world  to  hurt  the 
feelings  of  a  friend, —  a  —  a  —  but  you  have  been  left 
among  us  penniless,  and  I  have  a  very  little  money  which 
I  have  no  use  for,  none  in  the  least.  Will  you  not  favor 
me  by  accepting  it  as  a  loan  ?  " 

I  felt  the  full  and  generous  delicacy  of  the  proposal, 
and,  with  moistened  eyes  and  a  swelling  heart,  availed 
myself  of  his  kindness.  The  sum  he  tendered  did  not 
much  exceed  a  guinea ;  but  the  yearly  earnings  of  the 
peasant  Burns  fell,  at  this  period  of  his  life,  rather  below 
eight  pounds. 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF   BURNS.  103 


CHAPTER   V. 

Corbies  an'  clergy  are  a  shot  right  kittle. 

Brigs  of  Atb. 

The  years  passed,  and  I  was  again  a  dweller  on  the 
sea;  but  the  ill-fortune  which  had  hitherto  tracked  me 
like  a  bloodhound,  seemed  at  length  as  if  tired  in  the  pur- 
suit, and  I  was  now  the  master  of  a  West  India  trader, 
and  had  begun  to  lay  the  foundation  of  that  competency 
which  has  secured  to  my  declining  years  the  quiet  and 
comfort  which,  for  the  latter  part  of  my  life,  it  has  been 
ray  happiness  to  enjoy.  My  vessel  had  arrived  at  Liver- 
pool in  the  latter  part  of  the  year  1784;  and  I  had  taken 
coach  for  Irvine,  to  visit  my  mother,  whom  I  had  not 
seen  for  several  years.  There  was  a  change  of  passengers 
at  every  stage  ;  but  I  saw  little  in  any  of  them  to  interest 
me  till  within  about  a  score  of  miles  of  my  destination, 
when  I  met  with  an  old  respectable  townsman,  a  friend 
of  my  father's.  There  was  but  another  passenger  in  the 
coach,  a  north-country  gentleman  from  the  West  Indies. 
I  had  many  questions  to  ask  my  townsman,  and  many  to 
answer,  and  the  time  passed  lightly  away. 

"Can  you  tell  me  aught  of  the  Burnses  of  Lochlea?" 
I  inquired,  after  learning  that  my  mother  and  my  other 
relatives  were  well.  "  I  met  with  the  young  man  Robert 
about  five  years  ago,  and  have  often  since  asked  my- 
self what  special  end  Providence  could  have  in  view  in 
making  such  a  man." 


104  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

"  I  was  acquainted  with  old  William  Burns,"  said  my 
companion,  "  when  he  was  gardener  at  Denholm,  an'  got 
intimate  wi'  his  son  Robert  when  he  lived  wi'  us  at  Irvine 
a  twalmonth  syne.  The  faither  died  shortly  ago,  sairly 
straitened  in  his  means,  I'm  fear'd,  an'  no  very  square  wi' 
the  laird  ;  an'  ill  wad  he  hae  liked  that,  for  an  honester 
man  never  breathed.  Robert,  puir  chield,  is  no  very  easy 
either." 

"  In  his  circumstances?"  I  said. 

"Ay,  an  waur.  He  gat  entangled  wi'  the  kirk  on  an 
unlucky  sculduddery  business,  an'  has  been  writing  bitter 
wicked  ballads  on  a'  the  gude  ministers  in  the  country 
ever  sinsyne.  I'm  vexed  it's  on  them  he  suld  hae  fallen  ; 
an'  yet  they  hae  been  to  blame  too." 

"  Robert  Burns  so  entangled,  so  occupied ! "  I  ex- 
claimed ;  "  you  grieve  and  astonish  me." 

"  We  are  puir  creatures,  Matthew,"  said  the  old  man  ; 
"  strength  an'  weakness  are  often  next-door  neighbors  in 
the  best  o'  us;  nay,  what  is  our  vera  strength  ta'en  on  the 
a'e  side,  may  be  our  vera  weakness  ta'en  on  the  ither. 
Never  was  there  a  stanch er,  firmer  fallow  than  Robert 
Burns ;  an',  now  that  he  has  ta'en  a  wrang  step,  puir 
chield,  that  vera  stanchness  seems  just  a  weak  want  o' 
ability  to  yield.  He  has  planted  his  foot  where  it  lighted 
by  mishanter,  and  a'  the  gude  an'  ill  in  Scotland  wadna 
budge  him  frae  the  spot." 

"  Dear  me  !  that  so  powerful  a  mind  should  be  so  friv- 
olously engaged  !  Making  ballads,  you  say  ?  With  what 
success  ?  " 

"  Ah,  Matthew,  lad,  when  the  strong  man  puts  out  his 
(Strength,"  said  my  companion,  "  there's  naething  frivolous 
in  the  matter,  be  his  object  what  it  may.  Robert's  ballads 
are  far,  far  aboon  the  best  things  ever  seen  in  Scotland 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    BURNS.  105 

afore.  "We  auld  folk  dinna  ken  whether  maist  to  blame 
or  praise  them  ;  but  they  keep  the  young  people  laughing 
frae  the  a'e  nuik  o'  the  shire  till  the  ither." 

"But  how,"  I  inquired,  "have  the  better  clergy  ren- 
dered themselves  obnoxious  to  Burns  ?  The  laws  he  has 
violated,  if  I  rightly  understand  you,  are  indeed  severe, 
and  somewhat  questionable  in  their  tendencies  ;  and  even 
good  men  often  press  them  too  far." 

"And  in  the  case  of  Robert,"  said  the  old  man,  "  our 
clergy  have  been  strict  to  the  very  letter.  They're  gude 
men,  an'  faithfu'  ministers  ;  but  ane  o'  them  at  least,  an'  he 
a  leader,  has  a  harsh,  ill  temper,  an'  mistakes  sometimes 
the  corruption  o'  the  auld  man  in  him  for  the  proper 
zeal  o'  the  new  ane.  Nor  is  there  ony  o'  the  ithcrs  wha 
kent  whnt  they  had  to  deal  wi'  when  Robert  cam'  afore 
them.  They  saw  but  a  proud,  thrawart  ploughman,  that 
stood  uncow'ring  under  the  glunsh  o'  a  haill  session  ;  and 
so  they  opened  on  him  the  artillery  o'  the  kirk,  to  bear 
down  his  pride.  Wha  could  hae  tauld  them  that  they 
were  but  frushing  their  straw  an'  rotten  wood  against  the 
iron  scales  o'  Leviathan  ?  An'  now  that  they  hae  dune 
their  maist,  the  record  o'  Robert's  mishanter  is  lying  in 
whity-brown  ink  yonder  in  a  page  o'  the  session-buik  ; 
while  the  ballads  hae  sunk  deep,  deep  intil  the  very  mind 
o'  the  country,  and  may  live  there  for  hunders  and 
hunders  o'  years." 

"You  seem  to  contrast,  in  this  business,"  I  said,  "our 
better  with  what  you  must  deem  our  inferior  clergy. 
You  mean,  do  you  not,  the  higher  and  lower  parties  in  our 
church?     How  are  they  getting  on  now  ?" 

"Never  worse,"  replied  the  old  man;  "an'  oh,  it's  surely 
ill  when  the  ministers  o'  peace  become  the  very  leaders 
o'  contention  !     But  let  the  blame  rest  in  the  right  place. 


106  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

Peace  is  surely  a  blessing  frae  heaven,  —  no  a  gude  wark 
demanded  frae  man  ;  an'  when  it  grows  our  duty  to  be  in 
war,  it's  an  ill  thing  to  be  in  peace.  Our  Evangelicals  are 
stan'in',  puir  folk,  whar  their  faithers  stood ;  an'  if  they 
maun  either  fight  or  be  beaten  frae  their  post,  why,  it's 
just  their  duty  to  fight.  But  the  Moderates  are  rinnin' 
mad  a'thegither  araang  us ;  signing  our  auld  Confession 
just  that  they  may  get  intil  the  kirk  to  preach  against 
it ;  paring  the  New  Testament  doun  to  the  vera  standard 
o'  heathen  Plawto  ;  and  sinking  a'e  doctrine  after  anither, 
till  fhey  leave  ahint  naething  but  Deism  that  might  scunner 
an  infidel.  Deed,  Matthew,  if  there  comena  a  chancre 
amang  them,  an'  that  sune,  they'll  swamp  the  puir  kirk 
a'thegither.  The  cauld  morality,  that  never  made  ony  ane 
mair  moral,  tak's  nae  haud  o'  the  people ;  an'  patronage, 
as  meikle's  they  roose  it,  winna  keep  up  either  kirk  or 
manse  o'  itsel'.  Sorry  I  am,  sin'  Robert  has  entered  on 
the  quarrel  at  a',  it  suld  hae  been  on  the  wrang  side." 

"One  of  my  chief  objections,"  I  said,  "to  the  religion 
of  the  Moderate  party,  is,  that  it  is  of  no  use." 

"A  gey  serious  ane,"  rejoined  the  old  man;  "but 
maybe  there's  a  waur  still.  I'm  unco  vexed  for  Robert, 
baith  on  his  worthy  faither's  account  and  his  ain.  He's 
a  fearsome  fellow  when  ance  angered,  but  an  honest, 
warm-hearted  chield  for  a'  that ;  an'  there's  mair  sense 
in  yon  big  head  o'his  than  in  ony  ither  twa  in  the 
country." 

"  Can  you  tell  me  aught,"  said  the  north-country  gen- 
tleman,  addressing   my   companion,  "of  Mr.  R ,  the 

chapel  minister  in  K ?     I  was  once  one  of  his  pupils 

in  the  far  north  ;  but  I  have  heard  nothing  of  him  since 
he  left  Cromarty." 

"Why,"  rejoined  the  old  man,  "  he's  just  the  man  that, 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF   BURNS.  107 

mair  nor  a'  the  rest,  has  borne  the  brunt  o'  Robert's  fear- 
some waggery.     Did  ye  ken  him  in  Cromarty,  say  ye  ?  " 

"He  was  parish  schoolmaster  there,"  said  the  gentle- 
man, "for  twelve  years;  and  for  six  of  these  I  attended 
his  school.  I  cannot  help  respecting  him  ;  but  no  one 
ever  loved  him.  Never,  surely,  was  there  a  man  at  once 
so  unequivocally  honest  and  so  thoroughly  unamiable." 

"You  must  have  found  him  a  rigid  disciplinarian,"  I  said. 

"  He  was  the  most  so,"  he  replied,  "  from  the  days  of 
Dionysius  at  least,  that  ever  taught  a  school.  I  remember 
there  was  a  poor  fisher-boy  among  us,  named  Skinner, 
who,  as  is  customary  in  Scottish  schools,  as  you  must  know, 
blew  the  horn  for  gathering  the  scholars,  and  kept  the  cat- 
alogue and  the  key  ;  and  who,  in  return,  was  educated  by 
the  master,  and  received  some  little  gratuity  from  the 
scholars  besides.  On  one  occasion  the  key  dropped  out  of 
his  pocket ;  and  when  the  school-time  came,  the  irascible 
dominie  had  to  burst  open  the  door  with  his  foot.  He 
raged  at  the  boy  with  a  fury  so  insane,  and  beat  him  so 
unmercifully,  that  the  other  boys,  gathering  heart  in  the 
extremity  of  the  case,  had  to  rise  en  masse  and  tear  him 
out  of  his  hands.  But  the  curious' part  of  the  story  is  yet 
to  come.  Skinner  has  been  a  fisherman  for  the  last  twelve 
years ;  but  never  has  he  been  seen  disengaged  for  a  mo- 
ment, from  that  time  to  this,  without  mechanically  thrust- 
ing his  hand  into  the  key-pocket. 

Our  companion  furnished  us  with  two   or  three  other 

anecdotes  of  Mr.  R .      He  told  us  of  a  lady  who  was 

so  overcome  by  sudden  terror  on  unexpectedly  seeing 
him,  many  years  after  she  had  quitted  his  school,  in  one 
of  the  pulpits  of  the  south,  that  she  fainted  away  ;  and  of 
another  of  his  scholars,  named  M'Glashan,  a  robust,  daring 
fellow  of  six  feet,  who,  when  returning  to  Cromarty  from 


108  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

some  of  the  colonies,  solaced  himself  by  the  way  with 
thoughts  of  the  hearty  drubbing  with  which  he  was  to 
clear  off  all  his  old  scores  with  the  dominie. 

"  Ere  his  return,  however,"   continued   the  gentleman, 

"Mr.  R had  quitted  the  parish;  and,  had  it  chanced 

otherwise,  it  is  questionable  whether  M'Glashan,  with  all 
his  strength  and  courage,  would  have  gained  anything  in 
an  encounter  with  one  of  the  boldest  and  most  powerful 
men  in  the  country." 

Such  were  some  of  the  chance  glimpses  which  I  gained 
at  this  time  of  by  far  the  most  powerful  of  the  opponents 
of  Burns.  He  was  a  good,  conscientious  man,  but  unfor- 
tunate in  a  harsh,  violent  temper,  and  in  sometimes  mis- 
taking, as  my  old  townsman  remarked,  the  dictates  of  that 
temper  for  those  of  duty. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

It's  hardly  in  a  body's  pow'r 
To  keep  at  times  frae  being  sour, 

To  see  how  things  are  shared,  — 
How  best  'o  chiels  are  whiles  in  want, 
While  coofs  on  countless  thousands  rant, 

And  kenna  how  to  wair't. 

Epistle  to  Davie. 

I  visited  my  friend,  a  few  days  after  my  arrival  in 
Irvine,  at  the  farm-house  of  Mossgiel,  to  which,  on  the 
death  of  his  father,  he  had  removed,  with  his  brother  Gil- 
bert and  his  mother.  I  could  not  avoid  observing:  that 
his  manners  were  considerably  changed.  My  welcome 
seemed  less  kind  and  hearty  than  I  could  have  anticipated 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    BURNS.  109 

from  the  warm-hearted  peasant  of  five  years  ago ;  and  there 
was  a  stern  and  almost  supercilious  elevation  in  his  bearing, 
which  at  first  pained  and  offended  me.  I  had  met  with 
him  as  he  was  returning  from  the  fields  after  the  labors  of 
the  day.  The  dusk  of  twilight  had  fallen  ;  and,  though  I 
had  calculated  on  passing  the  evening  with  him  at  the 
farm-house  of  Mossgiel,  so  displeased  was  I  that  after 
our  first  greeting  I  had  more  than  half  changed  my  mind. 
The  recollection  of  his  former  kindness  to  me,  however, 
suspended  the  feeling,  and  I  resolved  on  throwing  myself 
on  his  hospitality  for  the  night,  however  cold  the  welcome. 

"  I  have  come  all  the  way  from  Irvine  to  see  you,  Mr. 
Burns,"  I  said.  "  For  the  last  five  years  I  have  thought 
more  of  my  mother  and  you  than  of  any  other  two  per- 
sons in  the  country.  May  I  not  calculate,  as  of  old,  on  my 
supper  and  a  bed  ?  " 

There  was  an  instantaneous  change  in  his  expression. 

"  Pardon  me,  my  friend,"  he  said,  grasping  my  hand ; 
"I  have,  unwittingly,  been  doing  you  wrong.  One  may 
surely  be  the  master  of  an  Indiaman,  and  in  possession  of 
a  heart  too  honest  to  be  spoiled  by  prosperity  !  " 

The  remark  served  to  explain  the  haughty  coolness  of  his 
manner  which  had  so  displeased  me,  and  which  was  but  the 
unwillingly  assumed  armor  of  a  defensive  pride. 

"There,  brother,"  he  said,  throwing  down  some  plough- 
irons  which  he  carried  ;  "send  wee  Davoc  with  these  to  the 
smithy,  and  bid  him  tell  Itankin  I  won't  be  there  to-night. 
The  moon  is  rising,  Mr.  Lindsay  ;  shall  we  not  have  a 
stroll  together  through  the  coppice?" 

"That  of  all  things,"  I  replied  ;  and,  parting  from  Gil- 
bert, we  struck  into  the  wood. 

The  evening,  considering  the  lateness  of  the  season, 
for  winter  had  set  in,  was  mild  and  pleasant.  The  moon 
10 


110  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

at  full  was  rising  over  the  Cumnock  hills,  and  casting  its 
faint  lisfht  on  the  trees  that  rose  around  us,  in  their  wind- 
ing-sheets  of  brown  and  yellow,  like  so  many  spectres,  or 
that,  in  the  more  exposed  glades  and  openings  of  the 
wood,  stretched  their  long  naked  arms  to  the  sky.  A 
light  breeze  went  rustling  through  the  withered  grass;  and 
I  could  see  the  faint  twinkling  of  the  falling  leaves,  as 
they  came  showering  down  on  every  side  of  us. 

"  We  meet  in  the  midst  of  death  and  desolation,"  said 
my  companion  ;  "  we  parted  when  all  around  us  was  fresh 
and  beautiful.  My  father  was  with  me  then,  and  —  and 
Mary  Campbell ;  and  now  "  — 

"  Mary  !  your  Mary  !  "  I  exclaimed,  "  the  young,  the 
beautiful,  —  alas !  is  she  also  gone  ?  " 

"  She  has  left  me,"  he  said,  —  "  left  me.  Mary  is  in  her 
grave  ! " 

I  felt  my  heart  swell  as  the  image  of  that  loveliest  of 
creatures  came  rising  to  my  view  in  all  her  beauty,  as  I 
had  seen  her  by  the  river-side,  and  I  knew  not  what  to 
reply. 

"  Yes,"  continued  my  friend,  "  she  is  in  her  grave.  We 
parted  for  a  few  days,  to  reunite,  as  we  hoped,  for  ever ; 
and  ere  those  few  days  had  passed  she  was  in  her  grave. 
But  I  was  unworthy  of  her,  —  unworthy  even  then ;  and 
now  —  But  she  is  in  her  grave  !" 

I  grasped  his  hand.  "It  is  difficult,"  I  said,  "to  bid 
the  heart  submit  to  these  dispensations ;  and  oh,  how  ut- 
terly impossible  to  bring  it  to  listen  !  But  life  —  your  life, 
my  friend  —  must  not  be  passed  in  useless  sorrow.  I  am 
convinced  —  and  often  have  I  thought  of  it  since  our  last 
meeting  —  that  yours  is  no  vulgar  destiny,  though  I  know 
not  to  what  it  tends." 

"Downwards!"  he  exclaimed,  "it  tends  downwards  !    I 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF   BURNS.  Ill 

see,  I  feel  it.     The  anchor  of  my  affection  is  gone,  and  I 
drift  shoreward  on  the  rocks." 

"  'Twere  ruin,"  I  exclaimed,  "to  think  so !  " 
"Not  half  an  hour  ere  my  father  died,"  he  continued, 
"he  expressed  a  wish  to  rise  and   sit  once   more  in   his 
chair;  and  Ave  indulged  him.     But,  alas!  the  same  feeling 
of  uneasiness  which  had  prompted  the  wish  remained  with 
him  still,  and  he  sought  to  return  again  to  his  bed.     'It  is 
not  by  quitting  the  bed  or  the  chair,'  he  said,  '  that  I  need 
seek  for  ease ;  it  is  by  quitting  the  body.'     I  am  oppressed, 
Mr.  Lindsay,  by  a  somewhat  similar  feeling  of  uneasiness, 
and  at  times  would  fain  cast  the  blame  on  the  circumstan- 
ces in  which  I  am  placed.     But  I  may  be  as  far  mistaken 
as  ray  poor  father.     I  would  fain    live  at  peace  with  all 
mankind  ;  nay,  more,  I  would  fain  love  and  do  good  to  them 
all;  but  the  villain  and  the   oppressor  come  to  set  their 
feet  on  my  very  neck  and    crush  me  into  the  mire,  and 
must  I  not  resist?     And  when,  in  some  luckless  hour,  I 
yield  to  my  passions,  —  to  those  fearful  passions  that  must 
one  day  overwhelm  me,  —  when  I  yield,  and  my  whole 
mind  is  darkened  by  remorse,  and  I  groan  under  the  disci- 
pline of  conscience,  then  comes  the  odious,  abominable  hyp- 
ocrite, the  devourer  of  widows'  houses  and  the  substance 
of  the  orphan,  and  demands  that  my  repentance  be  as  pub- 
lic as  his  own  detestable  prayers !     And  can  I  do  other 
than  resist  and  expose  him  ?      My  heart  tells  me  it  was 
formed  to  bestow;  why  else  does  every  misery  that  I  can- 
not relieve  render  me  wretched?     It  tells  me,  too,  it  was 
formed  not  to  receive  ;  why  else  does  the  proffered  assis- 
tance of  even  a  friend  fill  my  whole  soul  with  indignation? 
But  ill  do  my  circumstances  agree  with  my  feelings.     I  feel 
as  if  I  were  totally  misplaced  in  some  frolic  of  Nature,  and 
wander  onwards,  in  gloom  and  unhappiness,  for  my  proper 


112  TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

sphere.  But,  alas !  these  efforts  of  uneasy  misery  are  but 
the  blind  gropings  of  Homer's  Cyclops  round  the  walls  of 
his  cave." 

I  again  began  to  experience,  as  on  a  former  occasion, 
the  o'ermastering  power  of  a  mind  larger  beyond  compar- 
ison than  my  own;  but  I  felt  it  my  duty  to  resist  the  in- 
fluence. "  Yes,  you  are  misplaced,  my  friend,"  I  said,  — 
"perhaps  more  decidedly  so  than  any  other  man  I  ever 
knew  ;  but  is  not  this  characteristic,  in  some  measure,  of 
the  whole  species  ?  We  are  all  misplaced ;  and  it  seems 
a  part  of  the  scheme  of  Deity  that  we  should  work  our- 
selves up  to  our  proper  sphere.  In  what  other  respect 
does  man  so  differ  from  the  inferior  animals  as  in  those  as- 
pirations which  lead  him  through  all  the  progressions  of 
improvement,  from  the  lowest  to  the  highest  level  of  his 
nature  ?  " 

"  That  may  be  philosophy,  my  friend,"  he  replied,  "  but  a 
heart  ill  at  ease  finds  little  of  comfort  in  it.  You  knew  my 
father,  —  need  I  say  he  was  one  of  the  excellent  of  the 
earth,  a  man  who  held  directly  from  God  Almighty  the 
patent  of  his  honors  ?  I  saw  that  father  sink  broken- 
hearted into  the  grave,  the  victim  of  legalized  oppression : 
yes,  saw  him  overborne  in  the  long  contest  which  his  high 
spirit  and  his  indomitable  love  of  the  right  had  incited 
him  to  maintain,  —  overborne  by  a  mean,  despicable  scoun- 
drel, one  of  the  creeping  things  of  the  earth.  Heaven 
knows  I  did  my  utmost  to  assist  in  the  struggle.  In  my 
fifteenth  year,  Mr.  Lindsay,  when  a  thin,  loose-jointed  boy, 
I  did  the  work  of  a  man,  and  strained  my  unknit  and 
overtoiled  sinews  as  if  life  and  death  depended  on  the  is- 
sue, till  oft,  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  I  have  had  to  fling 
myself  from  my  bed  to  avoid  instant  suffocation,  —  an 
effect  of  exertion  so  prolonged   and  so  premature.     Nor 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    BURNS.  118 

has  the  man  exerted  himself  less  heartily  than  the  boy. 
In  the  roughest,  severest  labors  of  the  field  I  have  never 
yet  met  a  competitor.  But  my  labors  have  been  all  in 
vain.  I  have  seen  the  evil  bewailed  by  Solomon,  the 
righteous  man  falling  down  before  the  wicked."  I  could 
answer  only  with  a  sigh.  "  You  are  in  the  right,"  he  con- 
tinued, after  a  pause,  and  in  a  more  subdued  tone :  "  man 
is  certainly  misplaced ;  the  present  scene  of  things  is  be- 
low the  dignity  of  both  his  moral  and  intellectual  nature. 
Look  around  you"  (we  had  reached  the  summit  of  a  grassy 
eminence,  which  rose  over  the  wood  and  commanded  a 
pretty  extensive  view  of  the  surrounding  country) ;  "  see 
yonder  scattered  cottages,  that  in  the  faint  light  rise  dim 
and  black  amid  the  stubble-fields.  My  heart  warms  as  I 
look  on  them,  for  I  know  how  much  of  honest  worth,  and 
sound,  generous  feeling  shelters  under  these  roof-trees. 
But  why  so  much  of  moral  excellence  united  to  a  mere 
machinery  for  ministering  to  the  ease  and  luxury  of  a  few 
of  perhaps  the  least  worthy  of  our  species  —  creatures  so 
spoiled  by  prosperity  that  the  claim  of  a  common  nature 
has  no  force  to  move  them,  and  who  seem  as  miserably 
misplaced  as  the  myriads  whom  they  oppress? 

If  I'm  designed  yon  lordling's  slave,  — 

By  nature's  law  designed,  — 
Why  was  an  independent  wish 

E'er  planted  in  my  mind? 
If  not,  why  am  I  subject  to 

His  cruelty  and  scorn  ? 
Or  why  has  man  the  will  and  power 

To  make  his  fellow  mourn? 

"  I    would    hardly   know    what   to   say   in    return,   my 
friend,"  I  rejoined,  "  did  not  you  yourself  furnish  me  with 
the  reply.     You  are  groping  on  in  darkness,  and,  it  may 
10* 


114  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

be,  un happiness,  for  your  proper  sphere ;  but  it  is  in  obedi- 
ence to  a  great  though  occult  law  of  our  nature,  —  a  law- 
general,  as  it  affects  the  species,  in  its  course  of  onward 
progression  ;  particular,  and  infinitely  more  irresistible, 
as  it  operates  on  every  truly  superior  intellect.  There  are 
men  born  to  wield  the  destinies  of  nations ;  nay,  more,  to 
stamp  the  impression  of  their  thoughts  and  feelings  on  the 
mind  of  the  whole  civilized  world.  And  by  what  means 
do  we  often  find  them  roused  to  accomplish  their  appointed 
work?  At  times  hounded  on  by  sorrow  and  suffering,  and 
this,  in  the  design  of  Providence,  that  there  may  be  less  of 
sorrow  and  suffering  in  the  world  ever  after;  at  times 
roused  by  cruel  and  maddening  oppression,  that  the  op- 
pressor may  perish  in  his  guilt,  and  a  whole  country  enjoy 
the  blessings  of  freedom.  If  Wallace  had  not  suffered 
from  tyranny,  Scotland  would  not  have  been  free." 

"  But  how  apply  the  remark  ?  "  said  my  companion. 

"  Robert  Burns,"  I  replied,  again  grasping  his  hand, 
"  yours,  I  am  convinced,  is  no  vulgar  destiny.  Your 
griefs,  your  sufferings,  your  errors  even,  the  oppressions  you 
have  seen  and  felt,  the  thoughts  which  have  arisen  in  your 
mind,  the  feelings  and  sentiments  of  which  it  has  been  the 
subject,  are,  I  am  convinced,  of  infinitely  more  importance 
in  their  relation  to  your  country  than  to  yourself.  You 
are,  wisely  and  benevolently,  placed  far  below  your  level, 
that  thousands  and  ten  thousands  of  your  countrymen 
may  be  the  better  enabled  to  attain  to  theirs.  Assert  the 
dignity  of  manhood  and  of  genius,  and  there  will  be  less 
of  wrong  and  oppression  in  the  world  ever  after." 

I  spent  the  remainder  of  the  evening  in  the  farm-house 
of  Mossgiel,  and  took  the  coach  next  morning  for  Liver- 
pool. 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF   BURNS.  115 


CHAPTER   VII. 

His  is  that  language  of  the  heart 

In  which  the  answering  heart  would  speak,  — 
Thought,  word,  that  bids  the  warm  tear  start, 

Or  the  smile  light  up  the  cheek; 
And  his  that  music  to  whose  tone 

The  common  pulse  of  man  keeps  time, 
In  cot  or  castle's  mirth  or  moan, 

In  cold  or  sunny  clime. 

American  Poet. 

The  love  of  literature,  when  once  thoroughly  awakened 
in  a  reflective  mind,  can  never  after  cease  to  influence  it. 
It  first  assimilates  our  intellectual  part  to  those  fine  in- 
tellects which  live  in  the  world  of  books,  and  then  renders 
our  connection  with  them  indispensable  by  laying  hold 
of  that  social  principle  of  our  nature  which  ever  leads  us 
to  the  society  of  our  fellows  as  our  proper  sphere  of  en- 
joyment. My  early  habits,  by  heightening  my  tone  of 
thought  and  feeling,  had  tended  considerably  to  narrow 
my  circle  of  companionship.  My  profession,  too,  had  led 
me  to  be  much  alone. ;  and  now  that  I  had  been  several 
years  the  master  of  an  Indiaman,  I  was  quite  as  fond  of 
reading,  and  felt  as  deep  an  interest  in  whatever  took 
place  in  the  literary  world,  as  when  a  student  at  St.  An- 
drews. There  was  much  in  the  literature  of  the  period  to 
gratify  my  pride  as  a  Scotchman.  The  despotism,  both 
political  and  religious,  which  had  overlaid  the  energies  of 
our  country  for  more  than  a  century,  had  long  been  re- 
moved ;  and  the  national  mind  had  swelled  and  expanded 


116  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

under  a  better  system  of  things  till  its  influence  had 
become  coextensive  with  civilized  man.  Hume  had  pro- 
duced his  inimitable  history,  and  Adam  Smith  his  won- 
derful work  which  was  to  revolutionize  and  new-model 
the  economy  of  all  the  governments  of  the  earth.  And 
there  in  my  little  library  were  the  histories  of  Henry  and 
Robertson,  the  philosophy  of  Karnes  and  Reid,  the  novels 
ot  Smollett  and  M'Kenzie,  and  the  poetry  of  Beattie  and 
Home.  But  if  there  was  no  lack  of  Scottish  intellect  in 
the  literature  of  the  time,  there  was  a  decided  lack  of 
Scottish  manners ;  and  I  knew  too  much  of  my  humble 
countrymen  not  to  regret  it.  True,  I  had  before  me  the 
writings  of  Ramsay  and  my  unfortunate  friend  Ferguson ; 
but  there  was  a  radical  meanness  in  the  first  that  low- 
ered the  tone  of  his  coloring  far  beneath  the  freshness 
of  truth  ;  and  the  second,  whom  I  had  seen  perish,  —  too 
soon,  alas!  for  literature  and  his  country,  —  had  given  us 
but  a  few  specimens  of  his  power  when  his  hand  was 
arrested  for  ever. 

My  vessel,  after  a  profitable  though  somewhat  tedious 
voyage,  had  again  arrived  at  Liverpool.  It  was  late  in 
December,  1786;  and  I  was  passing  the  long  evening  in 
my  cabin,  engaged  with  a  whole  sheaf  of  pamphlets  and 
magazines  which  had  been  sent  me  from  the  shore.  "The 
Lounger"  was  at  this  time  in  course  of  publication.  I  had 
ever  been  an  admirer  of  the  quiet  elegance  and  exquisite 
tenderness  of  M'Kenzie;  and  though  I  might  not  be  quite 
disposed  to  think,  with  Johnson,  that  "  the  chief  glory  of 
every  people  arises  from  its  authors,"  I  certainly  felt  all 
the  prouder  of  my  country  from  the  circumstance  that  so 
accomplished  a  writer  was  one  of  my  countrymen.  I  had 
read  this  evening  some  of  the  more  recent  numbers,  —  half- 
disposed  to  regret,  however,  amid  all  the  pleasure  they  af- 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    BURNS.  117 

forded  me,  that  the  Addison  of  Scotland  had  not  done  for 
the  manners  of  his  country  what  his  illustrious  prototype 
had  done  for  those  of  England, —  when  my  eye  fell  on  the 
ninety-seventh  number.  I  read  the  introductory  senten- 
ces, and  admired  their  truth  and  elegance.  I  had  felt,  in 
the  contemplation  of  supereminent  genius,  the  pleasure 
which  the  writer  describes,  and  my  thoughts  reverted  to 
my  two  friends,  —  the  dead  and  the  living.  "  In  the  view 
of  highly  superior  talents,  as  in  that  of  great  and  stupen- 
dous objects,"  says  the  essayist, "  there  is  a  sublimity  which 
fills  the  soul  with  wonder  and  delight,  —  which  expands 
it,  as  it  were,  beyond  its  usual  bounds,  —  and  which,  in- 
vesting our  nature  with  extraordinary  powers  and  extra- 
ordinary honors,  interests  our  curiosity  and  flatters  our 
pride." 

I  read  on  with  increasing  interest.  It  was  evident, 
from  the  tone  of  the  introduction,  that  some  new  luminary 
had  arisen  in  the  literary  horizon  ;  and  I  felt  something 
like  a  schoolboy  when,  at  his  first  play,  he  waits  for  the 
drawing  up  of  the  curtain.  And  the  curtain  at  length 
rose.  "  The  person,"  continues  the  essayist,  "  to  whom  I 
allude"  —  and  he  alludes  to  him  as  a  genius  of  no  ordi- 
nary class —  "is  Robert  Burns,  an  Ayrshire  ploughman." 
The  effect  on  my  nerves  seemed  electrical.  I  clapped  my 
hands  and  sprung  from  my  seat.  "Was  I  not  certain  of 
it !  Did  I  not  foresee  it ! "  I  exclaimed.  "  My  noble- 
minded  friend,  Robert  Burns!"  I  ran  hastily  over  the 
warm-hearted  and  generous  critique,  —  so  unlike  the  cold, 
timid,  equivocal  notices  with  which  the  professional  critic 
has  greeted,  on  their  first  appearance,  so  many  works  des- 
tined to  immortality.  It  was  M*Kenzie,  the  discriminat- 
ing, the  classical,  the  elegant,  who  assured  me  that  the 
productions    of    this    "  heaven-taught    ploughman    were 


118  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

fraught  with  the  high-toned  feeling  and  the  power  and 
energy  of  expression  characteristic  of  the  mind  and  voice 
of  a  poet,"  with  the  solemn,  the  tender,  the  sublime ; 
that  they  contained  images  of  pastoral  beauty  which  no 
other  writer  had  ever  surpassed,  and  strains  of  wild  hu- 
mor which  only  the  higher  masters  of  the  lyre  had  ever 
equalled  ;  and  that  the  genius  displayed  in  them  seemed 
not  less  admirable  in  tracing  the  manners,  than  in  painting 
the  passions,  or  in  drawing  the  scenery  of  nature.  I  flung 
down  the  essay,  ascended  to  the  deck  in  three  huge  strides, 
leaped  ashore,  and  reached  my  bookseller's  as  he  wras 
shutting  up  for  the  night. 

"  Can  you  furnish  me  with  a  copy  of  'Burns's  Poems,'" 
I  said,  "  either  for  love  or  money  ?  " 

"  I  have  but  one  copy  left,"  replied  the  man,  "  and  here 
it  is." 

I  flung  down  a  guinea.  "  The  change,"  I  said,  "  I  shall 
get  when  I  am  less  in  a  hurry." 

'Twas  late  that  evening  ere  I  remembered  that  'tis  cus- 
tomary to  spend  at  least  part  of  the  night  in  bed.  I  read 
on  and  on  with  a  still  increasing  astonishment  and  delight, 
laughing  and  crying  by  turns.  I  was  quite  in  a  new  world. 
All  was  fresh  and  unsoiled, — the  thoughts,  the  descrip- 
tions, the  images,  —  as  if  the  volume  I  read  were  the  first 
that  had  ever  been  written ;  and  yet  all  was  easy  and  nat- 
ural, and  appealed  with  a  truth  and  force  irresistible  to 
the  recollections  I  cherished  most  fondly.  Nature  and 
Scotland  met  me  at  every  tm-n.  I  had  admired  the 
polished  compositions  of  Pope  and  Grey  and  Collins ; 
though  I  could  not  sometimes  help  feeling  that,  with  all 
the  exquisite  art  they  displayed,  there  was  a  little  addi- 
tional art  wanting  still.  In  most  cases  the  scaffolding 
seemed   incorporated    with    the    structure    which    it    had 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF   BURNS.  119 

served  to  rear;  and  though  certainly  no  scaffolding  could 
be  raised  on  surer  principles,  I  could  have  wished  that  the 
ingenuity  which  had  been  tasked  to  erect  it  had  been  ex- 
erted a  little  further  in  taking  it  down.      But  the  work 
before  me  was  evidently  the  production  of  a  greater  artist. 
Not  a  fragment  of  the  scaffolding  remained,  —  not  so  much 
as  a  mark  to  show  how  it  had  been  constructed.      The 
whole  seemed  to  have  risen  like  an  exhalation,  and  in  this 
respect  reminded  me  of  the  structures  of  Shakspeare  alone. 
I  read  the  inimitable  "  Twa  Dogs."     Here,  I  said,  is  the 
full  and  perfect  realization  of  what  Swift  and  Dryden  were 
haidy  enough  to  attempt,  but  lacked  genius  to  accomplish. 
Here  are  dogs  —  bona  fide  dogs  —  endowed,  indeed,  with 
more  than  human  sense  and  observation,  but  true  to  char- 
acter, as  the  most  honest  and  attached  of  quadrupeds,  in 
every  line.     And  then  those  exquisite  touches  which  the 
poor  man,  inured  to  a  life  of  toil  and  poverty,  can  alone 
rightly  understand  ;  and  those    deeply-based  remarks  on 
character  which  only  the  philosopher  can  justly  appreci- 
ate!       This  is  the  true  catholic    poetry,  which  addresses 
itself,  not  to  any  little  circle,  walled  in  from  the  rest  of  the 
species  by  some  peculiarity  of  thought,  prejudice,  or  con- 
dition, but  to  the  whole  human  family.     I  read  on.     "The 
Holy  Fair,"  "Hallowe'en,"  "The  Vision,"  the  "Address  to 
the  Deil,"  engaged  me    by  turns;    and   then  the  strange, 
uproarious,   unequalled   "Death   and   Doctor    Hornbook." 
This,  I  said,  is   something  new  in  the  literature  of  the 
world.      Shakspeare   possessed  above  all  men  the  power 
of  instant  and  yet  natural  transition,  —  from  the  lightly 
gay  to  the  deeply  pathetic,  from  the  wild  to  the  humor- 
ous,—  but  the  opposite  states  of  feeling  which  he  induces, 
however  close    the    neighborhood,   are   ever  distinct  and 
separate :  the  oil  and  the  water,  though  contained  in  the 


120  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

same  vessel,  remain  apart.  Here,  however,  for  the  first 
time,  they  mix  and  incorporate,  and  yet  each  retains  its 
whole  nature  and  full  effect.  I  need  hardly  remind  the 
reader  that  the  feat  has  been  repeated,  and  with  even 
more  completeness,  in  the  wonderful  "  Tarn  o'  Shanter." 
I  read  on.  "The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night"  filled  my 
whole  soul :  my  heart  throbbed,  and  my  eyes  moistened ; 
and  never  before  did  I  feel  half  so  proud  of  my  country, 
or  know  half  so  well  on  what  score  it  was  I  did  best  in 
feeling  proud.  I  had  perused  the  entire  volume,  from  be- 
ginning to  end,  ere  I  remembered  I  had  not  taken  supper, 
and  that  it  was  more  than  time  to  go  to  bed. 

But  it  is  no  part  of  my  plan  to  furnish  a  critique  on  the 
poems  of  my  friend.  I  merely  strive  to  recall  the  thoughts 
and  feelings  which  my  first  perusal  of  them  awakened,  and 
this  only  as  a  piece  of  mental  history.  Several  months 
elapsed  from  this  evening  ere  I  could  hold  them  out  from 
me  sufficiently  at  arms'  length,  as  it  were,  to  judge  of  their 
more  striking  characteristics.  At  times  the  amazing  amount 
of  thought,  feeling,  and  imagery  which  they  contained,  — 
their  wonderful  continuity  of  idea,  without  gap  or  inter- 
stice,—  seemed  to  me  most  to  distinguish  them.  At  times 
they  reminded  me,  compared  with  the  writings  of  smoother 
poets,  of  a  collection  of  medals,  which,  unlike  the  thin  pol- 
ished coin  of  the  kingdom,  retained  all  the  significant  and 
pictorial  roughnesses  of  the  original  die.  But  when,  after 
the  lapse  of  weeks,  months,  years,  I  found  them  rising  up 
in  my  heart  on  every  occasion,  as  naturally  as  if  they  had 
been  the  original  language  of  all  my  feelings  and  emotions  ; 
when  I  felt  that,  instead  of  remaining  outside  my  mind, 
as  it  were,  like  the  writings  of  other  poets,  they  had  so 
amalgamated  themselves  with  my  passions,  my  sentiments, 
my  ideas  that  they  seemed  to  have  become  portions  of  my 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    BURNS.  121 

very  self,  I  was  led  to  a  final  conclusion  regarding  them. 
Their  grand  distinguishing  characteristic  is  their  unswerv- 
ing and  perfect  truth.  The  poetry  of  Shakspeare  is  the 
mirror  of  life ;  that  of  Burns  the  expressive  and  richly- 
modulated  voice  of  human  nature. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

Barns  was  a  poor  man  from  his  birth,  and  an  exciseman  from  necessity: 
but — I  will  say  it!  —  the  sterling  of  his  honest  worth  poverty  could  not 
debase;  and  his  independent  British  spirit  oppression  might  bend,  but 
could  not  subdue.  —  Letter  to  Mr.  Graham. 

I  have  been  listening  for  the  last  half-hour  to  the  wild 
music  of  an  iEolian  harp.  How  exquisitely  the  tones  rise 
and  fall !  now  sad,  now  solemn  ;  "now  near,  now  distant. 
The  nerves  thrill,  the  heart  softens,  the  imagination  awakes 
as  we  listen.  What  if  that  delightful  instrument  be  ani- 
mated by  a  living  soul,  and  these  finely-modulated  tones 
be  but  the  expression  of  its  feelings  !  What  if  these  (ly- 
ing, melancholy  cadences,  which  so  melt  and  sink  into  the 
heart,  be  —  what  we  may  so  naturally  interpret  them  — 
the  melodious  sinkings  of  a  deep-seated  and  hopeless  un- 
happinesa!  Nay,  the  fancy  is  too  wild  for  even  a  dream. 
But  are  there  none  of  those  fine  analogies  which  run 
through  the  whole  of  nature  and  the  whole  of  art  to  sub- 
lime it  into  truth  ?  Yes,  there  have  been  such  living  harps 
among  us,  —  beings  the  tones  of  whose  sentiments,  the 
melody  of  whose  emotions,  the  cadences  of  whose  sor- 
rows, remain  to  thrill  and  delight  and  humanize  our  souls. 
11 


122  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

They  seem  born  for  others,  not  for  themselves.  Alas  for 
the  hapless  companion  of  my  early  youth!  Alas  for  him, 
the  pride  of  his  country,  the  friend  of  my  maturer  man- 
hood !     But  my  narrative  lags  in  its  progress. 

My  vessel  lay  in  the  Clyde  for  several  weeks  during  the 
summer  of  1794,  and  I  found  time  to  indulge  myself  in  a 
brief  tour  along  the  western  coasts  of  the  kingdom  from 
Glasgow  to  the  borders.     I  entered  Dumfries  in  a  calm, 
lovely  evening,  and  passed   along  one    of  the    principal 
streets.     The  shadows  of  the  houses  on  the  western  side 
were  stretched  half-way  across  the  pavement,  while  on  the 
side  opposite  the  bright  sunshine  seemed  sleeping  on  the 
jutting  irregular  fronts  and  high  antique  gables.     There 
seemed  a  world  of  well-dressed  company  this  evening  in 
town  ;  and  I  learned,  on  inquiry,  that  all  the  aristocracy  of 
the  adjacent  country,  for  twenty  miles  round,  had  come  in 
to  attend  a  country  ball.     They  went  fluttering  along  the 
sunny  side  of  the  street,  gay  as  butterflies,  group  succeed- 
ing group.     On  the  opposite  side,  in  the  shade,  a  solitary 
individual  was  passing  slowly  along  the  pavement.     I  knew 
him  at  a  glance.     It  was  the  first  poet,  perhaps  the  great- 
est man,  of  his  age  and  country.    But  why  so  solitary?    It 
had  been  told  me  that  he  ranked  among  his  friends  and 
associates  many  of  the  highest  names  in  the  kingdom,  and 
yet  to-night  not  one  of  the  hundreds  who  fluttered  past 
appeared  inclined  to  recognize  him.     He  seemed,  too, — ■ 
but  perhaps  .'ancy  misled  me,  —  as  if  care-worn  and  de- 
jected, —  pained,  perhaps,  that  not  one  among  so  many  of 
the  gieat  should  have  humility  enough  to  notice  a  poor 
exciseman.     1  stole  up  to  him  unobserved,  and  tapped  him 
on  the  shoulder.     There  was  a  decided  fierceness  in  his 
manner  as  he  tarned  abruptly  round ;  but,  as  he  recognized 
me,  his  expressive  countenance  lighted  up  in  a  moment, 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    BURNS.  123 

and  I  shall  never  forget  the  heartiness  with  which  he 
grasped  my  hand. 

We  quitted  the  streets  together  for  the  neighboring 
fields,  and,  after  the  natural  interchange  of  mutual  con- 
gratulations, "  How  is  it,"  I  inquired,  "  that  you  do  not 
seem  to  have  a  single  acquaintance  among  all  the  gay  and 
great  of  the  country?" 

"  I  lie  under  quarantine,"  he  replied,  "  tainted  by  the 
plague  of  Liberalism.  There  is  not  one  of  the  hundreds 
we  passed  to-night  whom  I  could  not  once  reckon  among 
my  intimates." 

The  intelligence  stunned  and  irritated  me.  "How  in- 
finitely  absurd!"  I  said.  "Do  they  dream  of  sinking  you 
into  a  common  man  ?  " 

"Even  so,"  he  rejoined.  "Do  they  not  all  know  I  have 
been  a  gauger  for  the  last  five  years?" 

The  fact  had  both  grieved  and  incensed  me  long  before. 
I  knew,  too,  that  Pye  enjoyed  his  salary  as  poet  laureate  of 
the  time,  and  Dibdin,  the  song  writer,  his  pension  of  two 
hundred  a  year  ;  and  I  blushed  for  my  country. 

"Yes,"  he  continued,  —  the  ill-assumed  coolness  of  his 
manner  giving  way  before  his  highly-excited  feelings,  — 
"they  have  assigned  me  my  place  among  the  mean  and  the 
degraded,  as  their  best  patronage;  and  only  yesterday, 
after  an  official  threat  of  instant  dismission,  I  was  told  that 
it  was  my  business  to  act,  not  to  think.  God  help  me! 
what  have  I  done  to  provoke  such  bitter  insult?  I  have 
ever  discharged  my  miserable  duty,  —  discharged  it,  Mr. 
Lindsay,  however  repugnant  to  my  feelings,  as  an  honest 
man;  and  though  there  awaited  me  no  promotion,  I  was 
silent.     The  wives  or  sisters  of  those  whom  they  advanced 

over  me  had  bastards  to  some  of  the family,  and  so 

their  influence  was  necessarily  greater  than  mine.      But 


124  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

now  they  crush  me  into  the  very  dust.  I  take  an  interest 
in  the  struggles  of  the  slave  for  his  freedom  ;  I  express  my 
opinions  as  if  I  myself  were  a  free  man  ;  and  they  threaten 
to  starve  me  and  my  children  if  I  dare  so  much  as  speak 
or  think." 

I  expressed  my  indignant  sympathy  in  a  few  broken 
sentences,  and  he  went  on  with  kindling  animation. 

"  Yes,  they  would  fain  crush  me  into  the  very  dust  ! 
They  cannot  forgive  me,  that,  being  born  a  man,  I  should 
walk  erect  according  to  my  nature.  Mean-spirited  and 
despicable  themselves,  they  can  tolerate  only  the  mean- 
spirited  and  despicable  ;  and  were  I  not  so  entirely  in  their 
power,  Mr.  Lindsay,  I  could  regard  them  with  the  proper 
contempt.  But  the  wretches  can  starve  me  and  my  chil- 
dren; and  they  know  it;  nor  does  it  mend  the  matter  that 
I  know,  in  turn,  what  pitiful,  miserable  little  creatures  they 
are.  What  care  I  for  the  butterflies  of  to-night?  They 
passed  me  without  the  honor  of  their  notice ;  and  I,  in  turn, 
suffered  them  to  pass  without  the  honor  of  mine,  and  I  am 
more  than  quits.  Do  I  not  know  that  they  and  I  are 
going  on  to  the  fulfilment  of  our  several  destinies,  —  they 
to  sleep  in  the  obscurity  of  their  native  insignificance,  with 
the  pismires  and  grasshoppers  of  all  the  past ;  and  I  to  be 
whatever  the  millions  of  my  unborn  countrymen  shall  yet 
decide?  Pitiful  little  insects  of  an  hour!  What  is  their 
notice  to  me !  But  I  bear  a  heart,  Mr.  Lindsay,  that  can 
feel  the  pain  of  treatment  so  unworthy;  and,  I  must  con- 
fess, it  moves  me.  One  cannot  always  live  upon  the  future, 
divorced  from  the  sympathies  of  the  present.  One  cannot 
always  solace  one's  self,  under  the  grinding  despotism  that 
would  fetter  one's  very  thoughts,  with  the  conviction,  how- 
ever assured,  that  posterity  will  do  justice  both  to  the  op- 
pressor and  the  oppressed.     I  am  sick  at  heart ;  and,  were 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF   BURNS.  125 

it  not  for  the  poor  little  things  that  depend  so  entirely  on 
my  exertions,  I  could  as  cheerfully  lay  me  down  in  the 
grave  as  I  ever  did  in  bed  after  the  fatigues  of  a  long  day's 
labor.  Heaven  help  me  !  I  am  miserably  unfitted  to  strug- 
gle with  even  the  natural  evils  of  existence ;  how  much 
more  so  when  these  are  multiplied  and  exaggerated  by  the 
proud,  capricious  inhumanity  of  man !  " 

"  There  is  a  miserable  lack  of  right  principle  and  right 
feeling,"  I  said,  "  among  our  upper  classes  in  the  present 
day  ;  but,  alas  for  poor  human  nature  !  it  has  ever  been  so, 
and,  I  atn  afraid,  ever  will.  And  there  is  quite  as  much  of 
it  in  savage  as  in  civilized  life.  I  have  seen  the  exclusive 
aristocratic  spirit,  with  its  one-sided  injustice,  as  rampant 
in  a  wild  isle  of  the  Pacific  as  I  ever  saw  it  among  our- 
selves." 

"Tis  slight  comfort,"  said  my  friend,  with  a  melancholy 
smile,  "  to  be  assured,  when  one's  heart  bleeds  from  the 
cruelty  or  injustice  of  our  fellows,  that  man  is  naturally 
cruel  and  unjust,  and  not  less  so  as  a  savage  than  when 
better  taught.  I  knew  you,  Mr.  Lindsay,  when  you  were 
younger  and  less  fortunate;  but  you  have  now  reached 
that  middle  term  of  life  when  man  naturally  takes  up  the 
Tory,  and  lays  down  the  Whig;  nor  has  there  been  aught 
in  your  improving  circumstances  to  retard  the  change  ;  and 
so  you  rest  in  the  conclusion  that,  if  the  weak  among  us 
suffer  from  the  tyranny  of  the  strong,  'tis  because  human 
nature  is  so  constituted ;  and  the  case  therefore  cannot  be 
helped." 

"  Pardon  me,  Mr.  Burns,"  I  said ;  "  I  am  not  quite  so 
finished  a  Tory  as  that  amounts  to." 

"I  am  not  one  of  those  fanciful  declaimers,"  lie  contin- 
ued, "  who  set  out  on  the  assumption  that  man  is  free-born, 
I  am  too  well  assured  of  the  contrary.     Man  is  not  free- 
11* 


126  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

born.  The  earlier  period  of  his  existence,  whether  as  a 
puny  child  or  the  miserable  denizen  of  an  uninformed  and 
barbarous  state,  is  one  of  vassalage  and  subserviency.  He 
is  not  born  free ;  he  is  not  born  rational ;  he  is  not  born 
virtuous ;  he  is  born  to  become  all  these.  And  woe  to  the 
sophist  who,  with  arguments  drawn  from  the  uncomfirmed 
constitution  of  his  childhood,  would  strive  to  render  his 
imperfect  because  immature  state  of  pupilage  a  permanent 
one  !  We  are  yet  far  below  the  level  of  which  our  nature 
is  capable,  and  possess,  in  consequence,  but  a  small  portion 
of  the  liberty  which  it  is  the  destiny  of  our  species  to  en- 
joy. And 'tis  time  our  masters  should  be  taught  so.  You 
will  deem  me  a  wild  Jacobin,  Mr.  Lindsay  ;  but  persecu- 
tion has  the  effect  of  making  a  man  extreme  in  these  mat- 
ters. Do  help  me  to  curse  the  scoundrels  !  My  business 
to  act,  not  to  think  !  " 

We  were  silent  for  several  minutes. 

"I  have  not  yet  thanked  you,  Mr.  Burns,"  I  at  length 
said,  "  for  the  most  exquisite  pleasure  I  ever  enjoyed.  You 
have  been  my  companion  for  the  last  eight  years." 

His  countenance  brightened. 

"  Ah,  here  I  am,  boring  you  with  my  miseries  and  my  ill- 
nature,"  he  replied;  "but  you  must  come  along  with  me, 
and  see  the  bairns  and  Jean,  and  some  of  the  best  songs  I 
ever  wrote.  It  will  go  hard  if  we  hold  not  care  at  the 
staff's  end  for  at  least  one  evening.  You  have  not  yet  seen 
my  stone  punch-bowl,  nor  my  Tarn  o,'  Shanter,  nor  a  hun- 
dred other  fine  things  besides.  And  yet,  vile  wretch  that 
I  am,  I  am  sometimes  so  unconscionable  as  to  be  unhappy 
with  them  all.     But  come  alonsr." 

We  spent  this  evening  together  with  as  much  of  happi- 
ness as  it  has  ever  been  my  lot  to  enjoy.  Never  was  there 
a  fonder  father  than  Burns,  a  more  attached  husband,  or  a 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    BURNS.  127 

wanner  friend.  There  was  an  exuberance  of  love  in  his 
large  heart  that  encircled  in  its  flow  relatives,  friends,  asso- 
ciates, his  country,  the  world  ;  and,  in  his  kindlier  moods, 
the  sympathetic  influence  which  he  exerted  over  the  hearts 
of  others  seemed  magical.  I  laughed  and  cried  this  evening 
by  turns.  I  was  conscious  of  a  wider  and  a  warmer  expan- 
sion of  feeling  than  I  had  ever  experienced  before.  My 
very  imagination  seemed  invigorated,  by  breathing,  as  it 
were,  in  the  same  atmosphere  with  his.  We  parted  early 
next  morning  ;  and  when  I  again  visited  Dumfries,  I  went 
and  wept  over  his  grave.  Forty  years  have  now  passed 
since  his  death ;  and  in  that  time,  many  poets  have  arisen 
to  achieve  a  rapid  and  brilliant  celebrity  ;  but  they  seem 
the  meteors  of  a  lower  sky ;  the  flash  passes  hastily  from  the 
expanse,  and  we  see  but  one  great  light  looking  steadily 
upon  us  from  above.  It  is  Burns  who  is  exclusively  the 
poet  of  his  country.  Other  writers  inscribe  their  names  on 
the  plaster  which  covers  for  the  time  the  outside  structure 
of  society;  his  is  engraved,  like  that  of  the  Egyptian 
architect,  on  the  ever-during  granite  within.  The  fame  of 
the  others  rises  and  falls  with  the  uncertain  undulations 
of  the  mode  on  which  they  have  reared  it;  his  remains 
fixed  and  permanent  as  the  human  nature  on  which  it  is 
based.  Or,  to  borrow  the  figure  Johnson  employs  in  illus- 
trating the  unfluctuating  celebrity  of  a  scarcely  greater 
poet,  "The  sand  heaped  by  one  flood  is  scattered  by  an- 
other, but  the  rock  always  continues  in  its  place  ;  the 
stream  of  time  which  is  continually  washing  the  dissoluble 
ia l>rics  of  other  poets  passes  by,  without  injury,  the  ada- 
mant of  Shakspeare." 


III. 

THE  SALMON-FISHER  OF  UDOLL. 

CHAPTER    I. 

And  the  fishers  shall  mourn  and  lament; 
All  those  that  cast  the  hook  on  the  river, 
And  those  that  spread  nets  on  the  face  of  the  waters, 
Shall  languish. 

Lowth's  Translation  of  Isa.  xix.  8. 

In  the  autumn  of  1759,  the  Bay  of  Udoll,  an  arm  of  the 
Bea  which  intersects  the  southern  shore  of  the  Frith  of 
Cromarty,  was  occupied  by  two  large  salmon-wears,  the 
property  of  one  Allan  Thomson,  a  native  of  the  province 
of  Moray,  who  had  settled  in  this  part  of  the  country  a 
few  months  before.  He  was  a  thin,  athletic,  raw-boned 
man,  of  about  five  feet  ten,  well-nigh  in  his  thirtieth  year, 
but  apparently  younger;  erect  and  clean-limbed,  with  a 
set  of  handsome  features,  bright,  intelligent  eyes,  and  a 
profusion  of  light  brown  hair  curling  around  an  ample  ex- 
panse of  forehead.  For  the  first  twenty  years  of  his  life 
he  had  lived  about  a  farm-house,  tending  cattle  when  a 
boy,  and  guiding  the  plough  when  he  had  grown  up.  He 
then  travelled  into  England,  where  he  wrought  about  seven 
years  as  a  common  laborer.  A  novelist  would  scarcely 
make  choice  of  such  a  person  for  the  hero  of  a  tale ;  but 
men  are  to  be  estimated  rather  by  the  size  and  color  of 


THE    SALMON-FISHER    OF    UDOLL.  129 

their  minds  than  the  complexion  of  their  circumstances ; 
and  this  ploughman  and  laborer  of  the  north  was  by  no 
means  a  very  common  man.  For  the  latter  half  of  his  life 
he  had  pursued,  in  all  his  undertakings,  one  main  design. 
He  saw  his  brother  rustics  tied  down  by  circumstance  — 
that  destiny  of  vulgar  minds  —  to  a  youth  of  toil  and  de- 
pendence, and  an  old  age  of  destitution  and  wretchedness  ; 
and,  with  a  force  of  character  which,  had  he  been  placed 
at  his  outset  on  what  may  be  termed  the  table-land  of  for- 
tune, would  have  raised  him  to  her  higher  pinnacles,  he 
persisted  in  adding  shilling  to  shilling  and  pound  to  pound, 
not  in  the  sordid  spirit  of  the  miser,  but  in  the  hope  that 
his  little  hoard  might  yet  serve  him  as  a  kind  of  stepping- 
stone  in  rising  to  a  more  comfortable  place  in  society.  Nor 
were  his  desires  fixed  very  high  ;  for,  convinced  that  inde- 
pendence and  the  happiness  which  springs  from  situation 
in  life  lie  within  the  reach  of  the  frugal  fanner  of  sixty  or 
eighty  years,  he  moulded  his  ambition  on  the  conviction, 
and  scarcely  looked  beyond  the  period  at  which  he  antici- 
pated his  savings  would  enable  him  to  take  his  place  among 
the  humbler  tenantry  of  the  country. 

Our  friths  and  estuaries  at  this  period  abounded  with 
salmon,  one  of  the  earliest  exports  of  the  kingdom;  hut 
from  the  low  state  into  which  commerce  had  sunk  in  the 
northern  districts,  and  the  irregularity  of  the  communica- 
tion kept  up  between  them  and  the  sister  kingdom,  by  fir 
the  greater  part  caught  on  our  shores  were  consumed  by 
the  inhabitants.  And  so  little  were  they  deemed  a  lux. 
ury,  that  it  was  by  no  means  uncommon,  it  is  said,  for  ser- 
vants to  stipulate  with  their  masters  that  they  should  not 
have  to  diet  on  salmon  oftener  than  thrice  a  week.  Thom- 
son, however,  had  seen  quite  enough,  when  in  England,  to 
convince  him  that,  meanly  as  they  were  esteemed  by  his 


J 30  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

country-folks,  they  might  be  rendered  the  staple  of  a  prof- 
itable trade  ;  and,  removing  to  the  vicinity  of  Cromarty, 
for  the  facilities  it  afforded  in  trading  to  the  capital,  he 
launched  boldly  into  the  speculation.  He  erected  his  two 
wears  with  his  own  hands ;  built  himself  a  cottage  of  sods 
on  the  gorge  of  a  little  ravine  sprinkled  over  with  bushes 
of  alder  and  hazel;  entered  into  correspondence  with  a 
London  merchant,  whom  he  engaged  as  his  agent ;  and  be- 
gan to  export  his  fish  by  two  large  sloops  which  plied  at 
this  period  between  the  neighboring  port  and  the  capital. 
His  fishings  were  abundant,  and  his  agent  an  honest  one ; 
and  he  soon  began  to  realize  the  sums  he  had  expended  in 
establishing  himself  in  the  trade. 

Could  any  one  anticipate  that  a  story  of  fondly-cherished 
but  hapless  attachment — of  one  heart  blighted  forever, 
and  another  fatally  broken  —  was  to  follow  such  an  intro- 
duction ? 

The  first  season  of  Thomson's  speculation  had  come  to  a 
close.  Winter  set  in,  and,  with  scarcely  a  single  acquaint- 
ance among  the  people  in  the  neighborhood,  and  little  to 
employ  him,  he  had  to  draw  for  amusement  on  his  own  re- 
sources alone.  He  had  formed,  when  a  boy,  a  taste  for 
reading;  and  might  now  be  found,  in  the  long  evenings, 
hanging  over  a  book  beside  the  fire.  By  day  he  went 
sauntering  among  the  fields,  calculating  on  the  advantages 
of  every  agricultural  improvement,  or  attended  the  fairs 
and  trysts  of  the  country,  to  speculate  on  the  profits  of  the 
drover  and  cattle-feeder  and  make  himself  acquainted  with 
all  the  little  mysteries  of  bargain-making. 

There  holds  early  in  November  a  famous  cattle-market 
in  the  ancient  barony  of  Ferintosh,  and  Thomson  had  set 
out  to  attend  it.  The  morning  was  clear  and  frosty,  and 
he  felt  buoyant  of  heart  and  limb,  as,  passing  westwards 


THE    SALMON-FISHER    OP    UDOLL.  131 

along  the  shore,  he  saw  the  huge  Ben  Wevis  towering 
darker  and  more  loftily  over  the  Frith  as  he  advanced,  or 
turned  aside,  from  time  to  time,  to  explore  some  ancient 
burying-ground  or  Danish  encampment.  There  is  not  a 
tract  of  country  of  equal  extent  in  the  three  kingdoms 
where  antiquities  of  this  class  lie  thicker  than  in  that 
northern  strip  of  the  parish  of  Resolis  which  bounds  on 
the  Cromarty  Frith.  The  old  castle  of  Craig  House,  a 
venerable,  time-shattered  building,  detained  him,  amid  its 
broken  arches,  for  hours  ;  and  he  was  only  reminded  of  the 
ultimate  object  of  his  journey  when,  on  surveying  the  moor 
from  the  upper  bartizan,  he  saw  that  the  groups  of  men  and 
cattle,  which  since  morning  had  been  mottling  in  succes- 
sion the  track  leading  to  the  fair,  were  all  gone  out  of  sight, 
and  that,  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  not  a  human  figure 
was  to  be  seen.  The  whole  population  of  the  country 
seemed  to  have  gone  to  the  fair.  He  quitted  the  ruins  ; 
and,  after  walking  smartly  over  the  heathy  ridge  to  the 
west,  and  through  the  long  birch  wood  of  Kinbeakie,  he 
reached,  about  mid-day,  the  little  straggling  village  at 
which  the  market  holds. 

Thomson  had  never  before  attended  a  thoroughly  High- 
land market,  and  the  scene  now  presented  was  wholly  new 
to  him.  The  area  it  occupied  was  an  irregular  opening  in 
the  middle  of  the  village,  broken  by  ruts  and  dung-hills 
and  heaps  of  stone.  In  front  of  the  little  turf-houses,  on 
either  side,  there  was  a  row  of  booths,  constructed  mostly 
(it  poles  and  blankets,  in  which  much  whiskey,  and  a  few  of 
the  simpler  articles  of  foreign  merchandise,  were  sold.  Tn 
the  middle  of  the  open  space  there  were  carts  and  benches, 
laden  with  the  rude  manufactures  of  the  country:  High- 
land brogues  and  blankets  ;  bowls  and  platters  of  beech  ;  a 
species  of  horse  and  cattle  harness,  formed  of  the  twisted 


132  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

twigs  of  birch ;  bundles  of  split  fir,  for  lath  and  torches ; 
and  hair  tackle  and  nets  for  fishermen.  Nearly  seven 
thousand  persons,  male  and  female,  thronged  the  area, 
bustling  and  busy,  and  in  continual  motion,  like  the  tides 
and  eddies  of  two  rivers  at  their  confluence.  There  were 
country-women,  with  their  shaggy  little  horses  laden  with 
cheese  and  butter;  Highlanders  from  the  far  hills,  with 
droves  of  sheep  and  cattle  ;  shoemakers  and  weavers  from 
the  neighboring  villages,  with  bales  of  webs  and  wallets  of 
shoes ;  farmers  and  fishermen,  engaged,  as  it  chanced,  in 
buying  or  selling ;  bevies  of  bonny  lasses,  attired  in  their 
gayest ;  ploughmen  and  mechanics  ;  drovers,  butchers,  and 
herd-boys.  Whiskey  flowed  abundantly,  whether  bargain- 
makers  bought  or  sold,  or  friends  met  or  parted  ;  and, 
as  the  day  wore  later,  the  confusion  and  bustle  of  the 
crowd  increased.  A  Highland  tryst,  even  in  the  present 
age,  rarely  passes  without  witnessing  a  fray ;  and  the  High- 
landers seventy  years  ago  were  of  more  combative  dispo- 
sitions than  they  are  now.  But  Thomson,  who  had  neither 
friend  nor  enemy  among  the  thousands  around  him,  neither 
quarrelled  himself,  nor  interfered  in  the  quarrels  of  others. 
He  merely  stood  and  looked  on,  as  a  European  would 
among  the  frays  of  one  of  the  great  fairs  of  Bagdad  or 
Astrakan. 

He  was  passing  through  the  crowd,  towards  evening,  in 
front  of  one  of  the  dingier  cottages,  when  a  sudden  burst 
of  oaths  and  exclamations  rose  from  within,  and  the  in- 
mates came  pouring  out  pell-mell  at  the  door,  to  throttle 
and  pummel  one  another,  in  inextricable  confusion.  A 
gray-headed  old  man,  of  great  apparent  strength,  who 
seemed  by  far  the  most  formidable  of  the,  combatants,  was 
engaged  in  desperate  battle  with  two  young  fellows  from 
the  remote  Highlands,  while  all  the  others  were  matched 


THE   SALMOX-FISHER   OF   UDOLL.  133 

man  to  man.  Thomson,  whose  residence  in  England  had 
taught  him  very  different  notions  of  fair  play  and  the  ring, 
was  on  the  eve  of  forgetting  his  caution  and  interfering, 
but  the  interference  proved  unnecessary.  Ere  he  had 
stepped  up  to  the  combatants,  the  old  man,  with  a  vigor 
little  lessened  by  age,  had  shaken  off  both  his  opponents ; 
and,  though  they  stood  glaring  at  him  like  tiger-cats,  nei- 
ther of  them  seemed  in  the  least  inclined  to  renew  the 
attack. 

"  Twa  mean,  pitiful  kerns,"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  "to 
tak  odds  against  ane  auld  enough  to  be  their  faither ;  and 
that,  too,  after  burning  my  loof  wi'  the  het  airn !  But  I 
hae  noited  their  twa  heads  thegither!  Sic  a  trick! — to 
bid  me  stir  up  the  tire  after  they  had  heated  the  wrang  end 
o'  the  poker !  Deil,  but  I  hae  a  guid  mind  to  gie  them 
baith  mair  o't  yet !  " 

Ere  he  could  make  good  his  threat,  however,  his  daugh- 
ter, a  delicate-looking  girl  of  nineteen,  came  rushing  up  to 
him  through  the  crowd.  "Father!"  she  exclaimed,  "dear- 
est father  !  let  us  away.  For  my  sake,  if  not  your  own,  let 
these  wild  men  alone.  They  always  carry  knives ;  and,  be- 
sides, you  will  bring  all  of  their  clan  upon  you  that  are  at 
the  tryst,  and  you  will  be  murdered." 

"  No  muckle  danger  frae  that,  Lillias,"  said  the  old  man. 
"  I  hae  little  fear  frae  ony  ane  o'  them  ;  an'  if  they  come 
by  twasome,  I  hae  my  friends  here  too.  The  ill-deedy 
wratches,  to  blister  a'  my  loof  wi'  the  poker !  But  come 
awa,  lassie;  your  advice  is,  I  dare  say,  best  after  a'." 

The  old  man  quitted  the  place  with  his  daughter,  and 
for  the  time  Thomson  saw  no  more  of  him.  As  the  night 
approached,  the  Highlanders  became  more  noisy  and  tur- 
bulent; they  drank,  and  disputed,  and  drove  their  very 
bargains  at  the  dirk's  point ;  and  as  the  salmon-tisher 
12 


134  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

passed  through  the  village  for  the  last  time,  he  could  see 
the  waving  of  bludgeons,  and  hear  the  formidable  war-cry 
of  one  of  the  clans,  with  the  equally  formidable  "  Hilloa ! 
help  for  Cromarty ! "  echoing  on  every  side  of  him.  He 
keep  coolly  on  his  way,  however,  without  waiting  the  re- 
sult ;  and,  while  yet  several  miles  from  the  shores  of  Udoll, 
daylight  had  departed,  and  the  moon  at  full  had  risen,  red 
and  huge  in  the  frosty  atmosphere,  over  the  bleak  hill  of 
Nigg. 

He  had  reached  the  Burn  of  Newhall,  —  a  small  stream 
which,  after  winding  for  several  miles  between  its  double 
row  of  alders  and  its  thickets  of  gorse  and  hazel,  fills  into 
the  upper  part  of  the  bay,  —  and  was  cautiously  picking 
his  way,  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  along  a  narrow  pathway 
which  winds  among  the  bushes.  There  are  few  places  in 
the  country  of  worse  repute  among  believers  in  the  super- 
natural than  the  Burn  of  Newhall ;  and  its  character  sev- 
enty years  ago  was  even  worse  than  it  is  at  present.  Witch 
meetings  without  number  have  been  held  on  its  banks,  and 
dead-lights  have  been  seen  hovering  over  its  deeper  pools ; 
sportsmen  have  charged  their  fowling-pieces  with  silver 
when  crossing  it  in  the  night-time  ;  and  I  remember  an  old 
man  who  never  approached  it  after  dark  without  fixing  a 
bayonet  on  the  head  of  his  staff.  Thomson,  however,  was 
but  little  influenced  by  the  beliefs  of  the  period ;  and  he 
was  passing  under  the  shadow  of  the  alders,  with  more  of 
this  world  than  of  the  other  in  his  thoughts,  when  the 
silence  was  suddenly  broken  by  a  burst  of  threats  and  ex- 
clamations, as  if  several  men  had  fallen  a-fighting,  scarcely 
fifty  yards  away,  without  any  preliminary  quarrel ;  and 
with  the  gruffer  voices  there  mingled  the  shrieks  and 
entreaties  of  a  female.  Thomson  grasped  his  stick,  and 
sprang  forward.    He  reached  an  opening  among  the  bushes, 


THE    SALMOX-FISHER    OF   UDOLL.  135 

and  saw  in  the  imperfect  light  the  old  robust  Lowlander 
of  the  previous  fray  attacked  by  two  men  armed  with 
bludgeons,  and  defending  himself  manfully  with  his  staff. 
The  old  man's  daughter,  who  had  clung  round  the  knees 
of  one  of  the  ruffians,  was  already  thrown  to  the  ground, 
and  trampled  under  foot.  An  exclamation  of  wrath  and 
horror  burst  from  the  high-spirited  fisherman,  as,  rushing 
upon  the  fellow  like  a  tiger  from  its  jungle,  he  caught  the 
stroke  aimed  at  him  on  his  stick,  and,  with  a  side-long 
blow  on  the  temple,  felled  him  to  the  ground.  At  the  in- 
stant he  fell,  a  gigantic  Highlander  leaped  from  among  the 
bushes,  and,  raising  his  huge  arm,  discharged  a  tremendous 
blow  at  the  head  of  the  fisherman,  who,  though  taken  un- 
awares and  at  a  disadvantage,  succeeded,  notwithstanding, 
in  transferring  it  to  his  left  shoulder,  where  it  fell  broken 
and  weak.  A  desperate  but  brief  combat  ensued.  The 
ferocity  and  ponderous  strength  of  the  Celt  found  their 
more  than  match  in  the  cool,  vigilant  skill  and  leopard- 
like  agility  of  the  Lowland  Scot ;  for  the  latter,  after  dis- 
charging a  storm  of  blows  on  the  head,  face,  and  shoulders 
of  the  giant,  until  he  staggered,  at  length  struck  his 
bludgeon  out  of  his  hand,  and  prostrated  his  whole  huge 
length  by  dashing  his  stick  end-long  against  his  breast. 
At  nearly  the  same  moment  the  burly  old  fanner,  who  had 
grappled  with  his  antagonist,  had  succeeded  in  flinging 
him,  stunned  and  senseless,  against  the  gnarled  root  of  an 
alder;  and  the  three  ruffians  —  for  the  first  had  not  yet 
recovered  —  lay  stretched  on  the  grass.  Ere  they  could 
scenic  them,  however,  a  shrill  whistle  was  heard  echoing 
from  among  the  alders,  scarcely  a  hundred  yards  away. 
"  We  had  better  get  home,"  said  Thomson  to  the  old  man, 
"  ere  these  fellows  are  reinforced  by  their  brother  ruffians 
in  the  wood."     And,  supporting  the  maiden  with  his  one 


136  TALES   AND     SKETCHES. 

hand,  and  grasping  his  stick  with  the  other,  he  plunged 
among  the  bushes  in  the  direction  of  the  path,  and  gaining 
it,  passed  onward,  lightly  and  hurriedly,  with  his  charge : 
the  old  man  followed  more  heavily  behind  ;  and  in  some- 
what less  than  an  hour  after  they  were  all  seated  beside 
the  hearth  of  the  latter,  in  the  farm-house  of  Meikle 
Farness. 

It  is  now  more  than  forty  years  since  the  last  stone  of 
the  very  foundation  has  disappeared  ;  but  the  little  grassy 
eminence  on  which  the  house  stood  may  still  be  seen. 
There  is  a  deep  wooded  ravine  behind,  which,  after  wind- 
ing through  the  table-land  of  the  parish,  like  a  huge 
crooked  furrow,  the  bed,  evidently,  of  some  antediluvian 
stream,  opens  far  below  to  the  sea;  an  undulating  tract 
of  field  and  moor,  with  here  and  there  a  thicket  of  bushes 
and  here  and  there  a  heap  of  stone,  spreads  in  front. 
When  I  last  looked  on  the  scene,  'twas  in  the  evening  of 
a  pleasant  day  in  June.  One  half  the  eminence  was  bathed 
in  the  red  light  of  the  setting  sun  ;  the  other  lay  brown 
and  dark  in  the  shadow.  A  flock  of  sheep  were  scattered 
over  the  sunny  side.  The  herd-boy  sat  on  the  top,  solacing 
his  leisure  with  a  music  famous  in  the  pastoral  history  of 
Scotland,  but  well-nigh  exploded,  that  of  the  stock  and 
horn ;  and  the  air  seemed  filled  with  its  echoes.  I  stood 
picturing  to  myself  the  appearance  of  the  place  ere  all  the 
inmates  of  this  evening,  young  and  old,  had  gone  to  the 
churchyard,  and  left  no  successors  behind  them  ;  and,  as  I 
sighed  over  the  vanity  of  human  hopes,  I  could  almost 
fancy  I  saw  an  apparition  of  the  cottage  rising  on  the 
knoll.  I  could  see  the  dark  turf- walls;  the  little  square 
windows,  barred  below  and  glazed  above  ;  the  straw  roof, 
embossed  with  moss  and  stone-crop  ;  and,  high  over  head, 
the    row   of  venerable   elms,    with   their   gnarled   trunks 


THE   SALMON-FISHER   OE   UDOLL.  137 

and  twisted  branches,  that  rose  out  of  the  garden-wall. 
Fancy  gives  an  interest  to  all  her  pictures,  —  yes,  even 
when  the  subject  is  but  an  humble  cottage;  and  when 
we  think  of  human  enjoyment,  of  the  pride  of  strength 
and  the  light  of  beauty,  in  connection  with  a  few  moul- 
dering and  nameless  bones  hidden  deep  from  the  sun, 
there  is  a  sad  poetry  in  the  contrast  which  rarely  fails  to 
affect  the  heart.  It  is  now  two  thousand  years  since 
Horace  sung  of  the  security  of  the  lowly,  and  the  unfluc- 
tuating nature  of  their  enjoyments;  and  every  year  of  the 
two  thousand  has  been  adding  proof  to  proof  that  the 
poet,  when  he  chose  his  theme,  must  have  thrown  aside 
his  philosophy.  But  the  inmates  of  the  farm-house  thought 
little  this  evening  of  coming  misfortune.  Nor  would  it 
have  been  well  if  they  had ;  their  sorrow  was  neither 
heightened  nor  hastened  by  their  joy. 

Old  William  Stewart,  the  farmer,  was  one  of  a  class 
well-nigh  worn  out  in  the  southern  Lowlands,  even  at 
this  period,  but  which  still  comprised,  in  the  northern  dis- 
tricts, no  inconsiderable  portion  of  the  people,  and  which 
must  always  obtain  in  countries  only  partially  civilized 
and  little  amenable  to  the  laws.  Man  is  a  fighting  animal 
from  very  instinct ;  and  his  second  nature,  custom,  mightily 
improves  the  propensity.  A  person  naturally  courageous, 
who  has  defended  himself  successfully  in  half  a  dozen  dif- 
ferent frays,  will  very  probably  begin  the  seventh  himself; 
and  there  are  few  who  have  fought  often  and  well  for 
-  fety  and  the  right  who  have  not  at  length  learned  to  love 
fighting  for  its  own  sake.  The  old  farmer  had  been  a  man 
of  war  from  his  youth.  He  had  fought  at  fairs  and  trysts 
and  weddings  and  funerals;  and,  without  one  ill-natured 
or  malignant  element  in  his  composition,  had  broken  more 
heads  than  any  two  men  in    the  country-side.     His  late 

12* 


138  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

quarrel  at  the  tryst,  and  the  much  more  serious  affah 
among  the  bushes,  had  arisen  out  of  this  disposition ;  for 
though  well-nigh  in  his  sixtieth  year,  he  was  still  as  war- 
like in  his  habits  as  ever.  Thomson  sat  fronting  him  be- 
side the  fire,  admiring  his  muscular  frame,  huge  limbs,  and 
immense  structure  of  bone.  Age  had  grizzled  his  hair 
and  furrowed  his  cheeks  and  forehead  ;  but  all  the  great 
strength,  and  well-nigh  all  the  activity  of  his  youth,  it  had 
left  him  still.  His  wife,  a  sharp-featured  little  woman, 
seemed  little  interested  in  either  the  details  of  his  adven- 
ture or  his  guest,  whom  he  described  as  the  "  brave,  hardy 
chielcl,  wha  had  beaten  twasome  at  the  cudgel, — the  vera 
littlest  o'  them  as  big  as  himsel'." 

"  Och,  gudeman,"  was  her  concluding  remark,  "  ye  aye 
stick  to  the  auld  trade,  bad  though  it  be ;  an'  I'm  feared 
that  or  ye  mend  ye  maun  be  aulder  yet.  I'm  sure  ye 
ne'er  made  your  ain  money  o't." 

"  Nane  o'  yer  nonsense,"  rejoined  the  farmer.  "  Bring 
butt  the  bottle  an'  your  best  cheese." 

"  The  gudewife  an'  I  dinna  aye  agree,"  continued  the 
old  man,  turning  to  Thomson.  "  She's  baith  near-gaun  an' 
new-fangled;  an'  I  like  aye  to  hae  routh  o'  a'  things,  an'  to 
live  just  as  my  faithers  did  afore  me.  Why  sould  I  bother 
my  head  wi'  improvidments,  as  thsy  ca'  them?  The  coun- 
try's gane  clean  gite  wi'  pride,  Thomson  !  Naething  less 
sairs  folk  noo,  forsooth,  than  carts  wi'  wheels  to  them  ;  an' 
it's  no  a  fortnight  syne  sin'  little  Sandy  Martin,  the  trifling 
cat,  jeered  me  for  yoking  my  owson  to  the  plough  by  the 
tail.     What  ither  did  they  get  tails  for  ?  " 

Thomson  had  not  sufficiently  studied  the  grand  argu- 
ment of  design,  in  this  special  instance,  to  hazard  a  reply. 

"  The  times  hae  gane  clean  oot  o'  joint,"  continued  the 
man.     "  The  law  has  come  a'  the  length  o'  Cromarty  noo  ; 


THE    SALMON-FISHER   OF    UDOLL.  139 

an'  for  breaking  the  head  o'  an  impudent  fallow,  ane  runs 
the  risk  o'  being  sent  aff  the  plantations.  Faith,  I  wish 
oor  Parliamenters  had  mail*  sense.  What  do  they  ken 
aboot  us  or  oor  country  ?  Deii  haet  difference  doo  they 
mak'  atween  the  shire  o'  Cromarty  an'  the  shire  o'  Lunnon  ; 
just  as  if  we  could  be  as  quiet  beside  the  red-wud  Hielan- 
man  here,  as  they  can  be  beside  the  queen.  Na,  na,  — 
naething  like  a  guid  cudgel ;  little  wad  their  law  hae  dune 
for  me  at  the  Burn  o'  Newhall  the  nicht." 

Thomson  found  the  character  of  the  old  man  quite  a 
study  in  its  way  ;  and  that  of  his  wife  —  a  very  different, 
and,  in  the  main,  inferior  sort  of  person,  for  she  was  mean- 
spirited  and  a  niggard  —  quite  a  study  too.  But  by  far 
the  most  interesting  inmate  of  the  cottage  was  the  old 
man's  daughter,  the  child  of  a  former  marriage.  She 
was  a  pale,  delicate,  blue-eyed  girl,  who,  without  possess- 
ing much  positive  beauty  of  feature,  had  that  expression 
of  mingled  thought  and  tenderness  which  attracts  more 
powerfully  than  beauty  itself.  She  spoke  but  little.  That 
little,  however,  was  expressive  of  gratitude  and  kindness  to 
the  deliverer  of  her  father ;  sentiments  which,  in  the  breast 
of  a  girl  so  gentle,  so  timid,  so  disposed  to  shrink  from 
the  roughnesses  of  active  courage,  and  yet  so  conscious  of 
her  need  of  a  protector,  must  have  mingled  with  a  feeling 
of  admiration  at  finding  in  the  powerful  champion  of  the 
recent  fray  a  modest,  sensible  young  man,  of  manners 
nearly  as  quiet  and  unobtrusive  as  her  own.  She  dreamed 
that  night  of  Thomson  ;  and  her  first  thought,  as  she  awak- 
ened next  morning,  was,  whether,  as  her  father  had  urged, 
lie  was  to  be  a  frequent  visitor  at  Meikle  Farness.  But  an 
entire  week  passed  away,  and  she  saw  no  more  of  him. 

He  was  sitting  one  evening  in  his  cottage,  poring  over 
a  book.    A  huge  fire  of  brushwood  was  blazing  against  the 


140  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

earthen  wall,  filling  the  upper  part  of  the  single  rude  cham- 
ber of  which  the  cottage  consisted  with  a  dense  cloud  of 
smoke,  and  glancing  brightly  on  the  few  rude  implements 
which  occupied  the  lower,  when  the  door  suddenly  opened, 
and  the  farmer  of  Meikle  Farness  entered,  accompanied  by 
his  daughter." 

"Ha!  Allan,  man,"  he  said,  extending  his  large  hand, 
and  grasping  that  of  the  fisherman  ;  "if  you  winna  come 
an'  see  us,  we  maun  just  come  and  see  you.  Lillias  an' 
mysel'  were  afraid  the  gudewife  had  frichtened  you  awa, 
for  she's  a  near-gaun  sort  o'  body,  an'  maybe  no  owre  kind- 
spoken  ;  but  ye  maun  just  come  an'  see  us  whiles,  an'  no 
mind  her.  Except  at  counting-time,  I  never  mind  her 
mysel'."  Thomson  accommodated  his  visitors  with  seats. 
"  Yer  life  maun  be  a  gay  lonely  ane  here,  in  this  eerie  bit  o' 
a  glen,"  remarked  the  old  man,  after  they  had  conversed 
for  some  time  on  different  subjects;  "but  I  see  ye  dinna 
want  company  a'thegither,  such  as  it  is,"  —  his  eye  glanc- 
ing, as  he  spoke,  over  a  set  of  deal  shelves,  occupied  by 
some  sixty  or  seventy  volumes.  "  Lillias  there  has  a  liking 
for  that  kind  o'  company  too,  an'  spends  some  days  mair 
o'  her  time  amang  her  books  than  the  gudewife  or  mysel' 
would  wish." 

Lillias  blushed  at  the  charge,  and  hung  down  her  head. 
It  gave,  however,  a  new  turn  to  the  conversation  ;  and 
Thomson  was  gratified  to  find  that  the  quiet,  gentle  girl' 
who  seemed  so  much  interested  in  him,  and  whose  grati- 
tude to  him,  expressed  in  a  language  less  equivocal  than 
any  spoken  one,  he  felt  to  be  so  delicious  a  compliment, 
possessed  a  cultivated  mind  and  a  superior  understanding. 
She  had  lived  under  the  roof  of  her  father  in  a  little  para- 
dise of  thoughts  and  imaginations,  the  spontaneous  growth 
ot  her  own  mind  ;  and  as  she  grew  up  to  womanhood,  she 


THE    SALMON-FISHER    OF    UDOLL.  141 

had  recourse  to  the  companionship  of  books  ;  for  in  books 
only  could  she  find  thoughts  and  imaginations  of  a  kin- 
dred character. 

It  is  rarely  that  the  female  mind  educates  itself.  The 
genius  of  the  sex  is  rather  fine  than  robust ;  it  partakes 
rather  of  the  delicacy  of  the  myrtle  than  the  strength  of 
the  oak ;  and  care  and  culture  seem  essential  to  its  full  de- 
velopment. Who  ever  heard  of  a  female  Burns  or  Bloom- 
field?  And  yet  there  have  been  instances,  though  rare,  of 
women  working  their  way  from  the  lower  levels  of  intel- 
lect to  well-nigh  the  highest, —  not  wholly  unassisted,  'tis 
true  ;  the  age  must  be  a  cultivated  one,  and  there  must 
be  opportunities  of  observation  ;  but,  if  not  wholly  unas- 
sisted, with  helps  so  slender,  that  the  second  order  of  mas- 
culine minds  would  find  them  wholly  inefficient.  There  is 
a  quickness  of  perception  and  facility  of  adaptation  in  the 
better  class  of  female  minds — an  ability  of  catching  the 
tone  of  whatever  is  good  from  the  sounding  of  a  single 
note,  if  I  may  so  express  myself —  which  we  almost  never 
meet  with  in  the  mind  of  man.  Lillias  was  a  favorable 
specimen  of  the  better  and  more  intellectual  order  of  wo- 
men ;  but  she  was  yet  very  young,  and  the  process  of  self- 
cultivation  carrying  on  in  her  mind  was  still  incomplete  ; 
and  Thomson  found  that  the  charm  of  her  society  arose 
scarcely  more  from  her  partial  knowledge  than  from  her 
partial  ignorance.  The  following  night  saw  him  seated  by 
her  side  in  the  farm-house  ofMeikle  Farness;  and  scarcely 
a  week  passed  during  the  winter  in  which  he  did  not  spend 
at  least  one  evening  in  her  company, 

Who  is  it  that  has  not  experienced  the  charm  of  female 
conversation,  —  that  poetry  of  feeling  which  develops  all 
of  tenderness  and  all  of  imagination  that  lies  hidden  in  our 


142  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

nature  ?  When  following  the  ordinary  concerns  of  life,  or 
engaged  in  its  more  active  businesses,  many  of  the  better 
faculties  of  our  minds  seem  overlaid;  there  is  little  of  feel- 
ing, and  nothing  of  fancy ;  and  those  sympathies  which 
should  bind  us  to  the  good  and  fair  of  nature  lie  repressed 
and  inactive.  But  in  the  societv  of  an  intelligent  and  vir- 
tuous  female  there  is  a  charm  that  removes  the  pressure. 
Through  the  force  of  sympathy,  we  throw  our  intellects  for 
the  time  into  the  female  mould  ;  our  tastes  assimilate  to  the 
tastes  of  our  companion  ;  our  feelings  keep  pace  with  hers  ; 
our  sensibilities  become  nicer  and  our  imaginations  more 
expansive  ;  and,  though  the  powers  of  our  mind  may  not 
muoh  excel,  in  kind  or  degree,  those  of  the  great  bulk  of 
mankind,  we  are  sensible  that  for  the  time  we  experience 
some  of  the  feelings  of  genius.  How  many  common  men 
have  not  female  society  and  the  fervor  of  youthful  passion 
sublimed  into  poets?  I  am  convinced  the  Greeks  dis- 
played as  much  sound  philosophy  as  good  taste  in  repre- 
senting their  muses  as  beautiful  women. 

Thomson  had  formerly  been  but  an  admirer  of  the  poets. 
He  now  became  a  poet.  And  had  his  fate  been  a  kindlier 
one,  he  might  perhaps  have  attained  a  middle  place  among 
at  least  the  minor  professors  of  the  incommunicable  art. 
He  was  walking  with  Lillias  one  evening  through  the 
wooded  ravine.  It  was  early  in  April,  and  the  day  had 
combined  the  loveliest  smiles  of  spring  with  the  fiercer 
blasts  of  winter.  There  was  snow  in  the  hollows  ;  but 
where  the  sweeping  sides  of  the  dell  reclined  to  the  south, 
the  violet  and  the  primrose  were  opening  to  the  sun.  The 
drops  of  a  recent  shower  were  still  hansrinar  on  the  half- 
expanded  buds,  and  the  streamlet  was  yet  red  and  turbid  ; 
but  the  sun,  nigh  at  his  setting,  was  streaming  in  golden 
glory  along  the  field,  and  a  lark  was  carolling  high  in  the 


THE    SALMON-FISHER   OF   UDOLL.  143 

air  as  if  its  day  were  but  begun.  Lillias  pointed  to  the 
bird,  diminished  almost  to  a  speck,  but  relieved  by  the  red 
lio-ht  against  a  minute  cloudlet. 

"  Happy  little  creature !  "  she  exclaimed  ;  "  does  it  not 
seem  rather  a  thine:  of  heaven  than  of  earth?  Does  not  its 
song  frae  the  clouds  mind  you  of  the  hymn  heard  by  the 
shepherds!  The  blast  is  but  just  owre,  an'  a  few  minutes 
syne  it  lay  cowering  and  chittering  in  its  nest ;  but  its  sor- 
rows are  a'  gane,  an'  its  heart  rejoices  in  the  bonny  blink, 
without  a'e  thought  o'  the  storm  that  has  passed  or  the 
night  that  comes  on.  Were  you  a  poet,  Allan,  like  ony  o' 
your  twa  namesakes, — he  o'  'The  Seasons,'  or  he  o' 
1  The  Gentle  Shepherd,'  —  I  would  ask  you  for  a  song  on 
that  bonnie  burdie."  Next  time  the  friends  met,  Thomson 
produced  the  following  verses  : — 

TO  THE  LARK. 

Sweet  minstrel  of  the  April  cloud, 

Dweller  the  flowers  among, 
Would  that  my  heart  were  formed  like  thino, 

And  tuned  like  thine  my  song-' 
Not  to  the  earth,  like  earth's  low  gifts, 

Thy  soothing  strain  is  given: 
It  comes  a  voice  from  middle  sky, — 

A  solace  breathed  from  heaven. 

Thine  is  the  morn;  and  when  the  sun 

Sinks  peaceful  in  tiic  west, 
The  mild  light  of  departing  day 

Purples  thy  happy  breast. 
And  ah!  though  all  beneath  that  sun 

Dire  pains  and  sorrows  dwell, 
Rarely  they  visit,  short  they  stay. 

Where  thou  hast  built  thy  cell. 

When  wild  winds  rave,  and  snows  descend, 

And  dark  clouds  gather  fast, 
And  on  the  surf-cncirclcd  shore 

Tho  seaman's  barque  is  cast, 


144  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

Long  human  grief  survives  the  storm; 

But  thou,  thrice  happy  bird! 
No  sooner  has  it  passed  away, 

Than,  lo!  thy  voice  is  heard. 

When  ill  is  present,  grief  is  thine; 

It  flies,  and  thou  art  free; 
But  ah!   can  aught  achieve  for  man 

What  nature  does  for  thee? 
Man  grieves  amid  the  bursting  storm; 

When  smiles  the  calm  he  grieves; 
Nor  cease  his  woes,  nor  sinks  his  plaint, 

Till  dust  his  dust  receives. 


CHAPTER    II. 
THE    SEQUEL. 

As  the  latter  month  of  spring  came  on  the  fisherman 
again  betook  himself  to  his  wears,  and  nearly  a  fortnight 
passed  in  which  he  saw  none  of  the  inmates  of  the  farm- 
house. Nothing  is  so  efficient  as  absence,  whether  self- 
imposed  or  the  result  of  circumstances,  in  convincing  a 
lover  that  he  is  truly  such,  and  in  teaching  him  how  to  es- 
timate the  strength  of  his  attachment.  Thomson  had  sat 
nio'ht  after  ni^ht  beside  Lillias  Stewart,  delighted  with  the 
delicacy  of  her  taste  and  the  originality  and  beauty  of  her 
ideas ;  delighted,  too,  to  watch  the  still  partially-developed 
faculties  of  her  mind  shooting  forth  and  expanding  into  bud 
and  blossom  under  the  fostering  influence  of  his  own  more 
matured  powers.  But  the  pleasure  which  arises  from  the  in- 
terchange of  ideas  and  the  contemplation  of  mental  beauty, 
or  the  interest  which  every  thinking  mind  must  feel  in  mark- 
ing the  aspirations  of  a  superior  intellect  towards  its  proper 
destiny,  is  not  love  ;  and  it  was  only  now  that  Thomson 
ascertained  the  true  scope  and  nature  of  his  feelings. 


THE    SALMON-FISHER    OF   UDOLL.  145 

"  She  is  already  my  friend,"  thought  he.  "  If  my  schemes 
prosper,  I  shall  be  in  a  few  years  what  her  father  is  now ; 
and  may  then  ask  her  whether  she  will  not  be  more.  Till 
then,  however,  she  shall  be  my  friend,  and  my  friend  only. 
I  find  I  love  her  too  well  to  make  her  the  wife  of  either  a 
poor  unsettled  speculator,  or  still  poorer  laborer." 

He  renewed  his  visits  to  the  farm-house,  and  saw,  with  a 
discernment  quickened   by  his  feelings,  that  his  mistress 
had  made  a  discovery  with  regard  to  her  own  affections 
somewhat  similar  to  his,  and  at  a  somewhat  earlier  period. 
She  herself  could  have  perhaps  fixed  the  date  of  it  by  re- 
ferring to  that  of  their  acquaintance.     He  imparted  to  her 
his  scheme,  and  the  uncertainties  which  attended  it,  with 
his  determination,  were  he  unsuccessful  in  his  designs,  to 
do  battle  with  the  evils  of  penury  and  dependence  with- 
out a  companion  ;  and,  though  she  felt  that  she  could  deem 
it  a  happiness  to  make  common  cause  with  him  even  in 
such  a  contest,  she  knew  how  to  appreciate   his  motives, 
and  loved  him  all  the  more  for  them.     Never,  perhaps,  in 
the  whole  history  of  the  passion,  were  there  two  lovers 
happier  in  their  hopes  and  each  other.     But  there  was  a 
cloud  gathering  over  them. 

Thomson  had  never  been  an  especial  favorite  with  the 
step-mother  of  Lillias.  She  had  formed  plans  of  her  own 
for  the  settlement  of  her  daughter  with  which  the  atten- 
tions of  the  salmon-fisher  threatened  materially  to  inter- 
fere ;  and  there  was  a  total  want  of  sympathy  between 
them  besides.  Even  William,  though  he  still  retained  a 
sort  of  rough  regard  for  him,  had  begun  to  look  askance 
on  his  intimacy  with  Lillias.  His  avowed  love,  too,  for  the 
modern,  gave  no  little  offence.  The  farm  of  Meiklc  Farness 
was  obsolete  enough  in  its  usages  and  mode  of  tillage  to 
have  formed  no  uninteresting  study  to  the  antiquary.     To- 

1.3 


146  TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

wards  autumn,  when  the  fields  vary  most  in  color,  it  re- 
sembled a  rudely-executed  chart  of  some  large  island,  — ■ 
so  irregular  were  the  patches  which  composed  it,  and  so 
broken  on  every  side  by  a  surrounding  sea  of  moor  that 
here  and  there  went  winding  into  the  interior  in  long  river- 
like strips,  or  expanded  within  into  friths  and  lakes.  In  one 
corner  there  stood  a  heap  of  stones,  in  another  a  thicket 
of  furze  ;  here  a  piece  of  bog,  there  a  broken  bank  of 
clay.  The  implements  with  which  the  old  man  labored  in 
his  fields  were  as  primitive  in  their  appearance  as  the  fields 
themselves  :  there  was  the  one-stilted  plough,  the  wooden- 
toothed  harrow,  and  the  basket-woven  cart  with  its  rollers 
of  wood.  With  these,  too,  there  was  the  usual  mispropor- 
tion  on  the  farm,  to  its  extent,  of  lean,  inefficient  cattle,  — 
four  half-starved  animals  performing  with  incredible  effort 
the  work  of  one.  Thomson  would  fain  have  induced  the 
old  man,  who  was  evidently  sinking  in  the  world,  to  have 
recourse  to  a  better  system,  but  he  gained  wondrous  little 
by  his  advice.  And  there  was  another  cause  which  ope- 
rated still  more  decidedly  against  him.  A  wealthy  young 
firmer  in  the  neighborhood  had  been  for  the  last  few 
months  not  a  little  diligent  in  his  attentions  to  Lillias. 
He  had  lent  the  old  man,  at  the  preceding  term,  a  consid- 
erable sum  of  money  ;  and  had  ingratiated  himself  with 
the  step-mother  by  chiming  in  on  all  occasions  with  her 
humor,  and  by  a  present  or  two  besides.  Under  the  aus- 
pices of  both  parents,  therefore,  he  had  paid  his  addresses 
to  Lillias  ;  and,  on  meeting  with  a  repulse,  had  stirred  them 
both  up  against  Thomson. 

The  fisherman  was  engaged  one  evening  in  fishing  his 
nets.  The  ebb  was  that  of  a  stream  tide,  and  the  bottom 
of  almost  the  entire  bay  lay  exposed  to  the  light  of  the 
setting  sun,  save  that  a  rivei*-like  strip  of  water  wound 


THE    SALMON-FISHER   OF   UDOLL.  147 

through  the  midst.  He  had  brought  his  gun  with  him,  in 
the  hope  of  finding  a  seal  or  otter  asleep  on  the  outer 
banks  ;  but  there  were  none  this  evening  ;  and,  laying 
down  his  piece  against  one  of  the  poles  of  the  wear,  he 
was  employed  in  capturing  a  fine  salmon,  that  went  dart- 
ing like  a  bird  from  side  to  side  of  the  inner  enclosure, 
when  he  heard  some  one  hailing  him  by  name  from  out- 
side the  nets.  He  looked  up,  and  saw  three  men  —  one  of 
whom  he  recognized  as  the  young  farmer  who  was  paying 
his  addresses  to  Lillias  —  approaching  from  the  opposite 
side  of  the  bay.  They  were  apparently  much  in  liquor,  and 
came  staggering  towards  him  in  a  zigzag  track  along  the 
sands.  A  suspicion  crossed  his  mind  that  lie  might  find 
them  other  than  friendly  ;  and,  coming  out  of  the  enclosure, 
where,  from  the  narrowness  of  the  space  and  the  depth 
of  the  water,  he  would  have  lain  much  at  their  mercy, 
he  employed  himself  in  picking  off  the  patches  of  sea-weed 
that  adhered  to  the  nets,  when  they  came  up  to  him,  and 
assailed  him  with  a  torrent  of  threats  and  reproaches.  He 
pursued  his  occupation  with  the  utmost  coolness,  turning 
round,  from  time  to  time,  to  repay  their  abuse  by  some 
cutting  repartee.  Plis  assailants  discovered  they  were  to 
gain  little  in  this  sort  of  contest;  and  Thomson  found,  in 
turn,  that  they  were  much  less  disguised  in  liquor  than 
he  at  first  supposed,  or  than  they  seemed  desirous  to  make 
it  appear.  In  reply  to  one  of  his  more  cutting  sarcasms, 
the  tallest  of  the  three,  a  ruffian-looking  fellow,  leaped 
forward  and  struck  him  on  the  face  ;  and  in  a  moment 
he  had  returned  the  blow  with  such  hearty  good-will 
that  the  fellow  was  dashed  against  one  of  the  poles.  The 
other  two  rushed  in  to  close  with  him.  He  seized  Ids  gun., 
and,  springing  out  from  beside  the  nets  to  the  open  bank, 
dealt  the  farmer,  with  the  butt-end,  a  tremendous  blow  on 


148  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

the  face,  which  prostrated  him  in  an  instant ;  and  then, 
cocking  the  piece  and  presenting  it,  he  commanded  the 
other  two,  on  peril  of  their  lives,  to  stand  aloof.  Odds  of 
weapons,  when  there  is  courage  to  avail  one's  self  of  them, 
forms  a  thorough  counterbalance  to  odds  of  number.  Af- 
ter an  engagement  of  a  brief  half-minute,  Thomson's  as- 
sailants left  him  in  quiet  possession  of  the  field  ;  and  he 
found,  on  his  way  home,  that  he  could  trace  their  route  by 
the  blood  of  the  young  farmer.  There  went  abroad  an  ex- 
aggerated and  very  erroneous  edition  of  the  story,  highly 
unfavorable  to  the  salmon-fisher  ;  and  he  received  an  inti- 
mation shortly  after  that  his  visits  at  the  farm-house  were 
no  longer  expected.  But  the  intimation  came  not  from 
Lillias. 

The  second  year  of  his  speculation  had  well-nigh  come 
to  a  close,  and,  in  calculating  on  the  quantum  of  his  ship 
ments  and  the  state  of  the  markets,  he  could  deem  it  a 
more  successful  one  than  even  the  first.  But  his  agent 
seemed  to  be  assuming  a  new  and  worse  character.  He 
rather  substituted  promises  and  apologies  for  his  usual  re- 
mittances, or  neglected  writing  altogether;  and,  as  the  fish- 
erman was  employed  one  day  in  dismantling  his  wears  for 
the  season,  his  worst  fears  were  realized  by  the  astounding 
intelligence  that  the  embarrassments  of  the  merchant  had 
at  length  terminated  in  a  final  suspension  of  payments! 

"There,"  said  he,  with  a  coolness  which  partook  in  its 
nature  in  no  slight  degree  of  that  insensibility  of  pain  and 
injury  which  follows  a  violent  blow, —  "  there  go  well-nigh 
all  my  hard-earned  savings  of  twelve  years,  and  all  my 
hopes  of  happiness  with  Lillias!"  He  gathered  up  his 
utensils  with  an  automaton-like  carefulness,  and,  throwing 
them  over  his  shoulders,  struck  across  the  sands  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  cottage.     "  I  must  see  her,"  he  said,  "  once 


THE  SALMON-FISHER  OF  UDOLL.  149 

more,  and  bid  her  farewell."  His  heart  swelled  to  his 
throat  at  the  thought ;  but,  as  if  ashamed  of  his  weakness, 
he  struck  his  foot  firmly  against  the  sand,  and,  proudly 
raising  himself  to  his  full  height,  quickened  his  pace.  He 
reached  the  door,  and,  looking  wistfully,  as  he  raised  the 
latch,  in  the  direction  of  the  farm-house,  his  eye  caught 
a  female  figure  coming  towards  the  cottage  through  the 
bushes  of  the  ravine.  "  'Tis  poor  Lillias  ! "  he  exclaimed. 
"Can  she  already  have  heard  that  I  am  unfortunate,  and 
that  we  must  part  ?  "  He  went  up  to  her,  and,  as  he 
pressed  her  hand  between  both  his,  she  burst  into  tears. 

It  was  a  sad  meeting.  Meetings  must  ever  be  such  when 
the  parties  that  compose  them  bring  each  a  separate  grief, 
which  becomes  common  when  imparted. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,"  said  Lillias  to  her  lover,  "  how  un- 
happy I  am.  My  step-mother  has  not  much  love  to  bestow 
on  any  one  ;  and  so,  though  it  be  in  her  power  to  deprive 
me  of  the  quiet  I  value  so  much,  I  care  comparatively  little 
for  her  resentment.  Why  should  I  ?  She  is  interested  in 
no  one  but  herself.  As  for  Simpson,  I  can  despise  without 
hating  him.  Wasps  sting  just  because  it  is  their  nature; 
and  some  people  seem  born,  in  the  same  way,  to  be  mean- 
spirited  and  despicable.  But  my  poor  father,  who  has  been 
so  kind  to  me,  and  who  has  so  much  heart  about  him, 
his  displeasure  has  the  bitterness  of  death  to  me.  And 
then  he  is  so  wildly  and  unjustly  angry  with  you.  Simp- 
son has  got  him,  by  some  means,  into  his  power,  I  know 
not  how.  My  step-mother  annoys  him  continually  ;  and 
from  the  state  of  irritation  in  which  he  is  kept,  he  is  saying 
and  doing  the  most  violent  things  imaginable,  and  making 
me  so  unhappy  by  his  threats."  And  she  again  burst  into 
tears. 

Thomson  had  but  little  of  comfort  to  impart  to  her.  In* 
13* 


150  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

deed,  he  eoukl  afterwards  wonder  at  the  indifference  with 
which  he  beheld  her  tears,  and  the  coolness  with  which  he 
communicated  to  her  the  story  of  his  disaster.  But  he  had 
not  yet  recovered  his  natural  tone  of  feeling.  Who  has 
not  observed  that,  while  in  men  of  an  inferior  and  weaker 
cast,  any  sudden  and  overwhelming  misfortune  unsettles 
their  whole  minds,  and  all  is  storm  and  uproar,  in  minds 
cf  a  superior  order,  when  subjected  to  the  same  ordeal, 
there  takes  place  a  kind  of  freezing,  hardening  process, 
under  which  they  maintain  at  least  apparent  coolness  and 
self-possession  ?  Grief  acts  as  a  powerful  solvent  to  the 
one  class ;  to  the  other  it  is  as  the  waters  of  a  petrifying 
spring. 

"Alas,  my  Lillias! "  said  the  fisherman,  "we  have  not 
been  born  for  happiness  and  each  other.  We  must  part, 
each  of  us  to  struggle  with  our  respective  evils.  Call  up 
all  your  strength  of  mind,  the  much  in  your  character 
that  has  as  yet  lain  unemployed,  and  so  despicable  a  thing 
as  Simpson  will  not  dare  to  annoy  you.  You  may  yet 
meet  with  a  man  worthy  of  you ;  some  one  who  will  love 
you  as  well  as  —  as  one  who  can  at  least  appreciate  your 
value,  and  who  will  deserve  you  better."  As  he  spoke,  and 
his  mistress  listened  in  silence  and  in  tears,  William  Stew- 
art burst  in  upon  then  through  the  bushes ;  and,  with  a 
countenance  flushed,  and  a  frame  tremulous  with  passion, 
assailed  the  fisherman  with  a  torrent  of  threats  and  re- 
proaches. He  even  raised  his  hand.  The  prudence  of 
Thomson  gave  way  under  the  provocation.  Ere  the  blow 
had  descended,  he  had  locked  the  farmer  in  his  grasp,  and, 
with  an  exertion  of  strength  which  scai*cely  a  giant  would 
be  capable  of  in  a  moment  of  less  excitement,  he  raised  him 
from  the  earth,  and  forced  him  against  the  grassy  side  of 
the  ravine,  where  he  held  him  despite  of  his  efforts.     A 


THE    SALMON-FISHER    OF    UDOLL.  151 

shriek  from  Lillias  recalled  him  to  the  command  ot  himself. 
"  William  Stewart,"  he  said,  quitting  his  hold  and  stepping 
back,  "you  are  an  old  man,  and  the  father  of  Lillias."  The 
farmer  rose  slowly  and  collectedly,  with  a  flushed  cheek 
but  a  quiet  eye,  as  if  all  his  anger  had  evaporated  in  the 
struggle,  and,  turning  to  his  daughter,  — 

"  Come,  Lillias,  my  lassie,"  he  said,  laying  hold  of  her 
arm,  "  I  have  been  too  hasty;  I  have  been  in  the  wrong." 
And  so  they  parted. 

Winter  came  on,  and  Thomson  was  again  left  to  the 
6olitude  of  his  cottage,  with  only  his  books  and  his  own 
thoughts  to  employ  him.  He  found  little  amusement  or 
comfort  in  either.  He  could  think  only  of  Lillias,  that  she 
loved  and  yet  was  lost  to  him. 

"Generous  and  affectionate  and  confiding,"  he  has  said, 
when  thinking  of  her,  "  I  know  she  would  willingly  share 
with  me  in  my  poverty ;  but  ill  would  I  repay  her  kind- 
ness in  demanding  of  her  such  a  sacrifice.  Besides,  how 
could  I  endure  to  see  her  subjected  to  the  privations  of  a 
destiny  so  humble  as  mine  ?  The  same  heaven  that  seems 
to  have  ordained  me  to  labor,  and  to  be  unsuccessful,  has 
given  me  a  mind  not  to  be  broken  by  either  toil  or  disap- 
pointment ;  but  keenly  and  bitterly  would  I  feel  the  evils 
of  both  were  she  to  be  equally  exposed.  I  must  strive  to 
forget  her,  or  think  of  her  only  as  my  friend."  And,  in- 
dulging in  such  thoughts  as  these,  and  repeating  and  re- 
repeating  similar  resolutions,  —  only  however  to  find  them 
unavailing,  —  winter,  with  its  long,  dreary  nights,  and  its 
days  of  languor  and  inactivity,  passed  heavily  away.  But 
it  passed. 

He  was  sitting  beside  his  fire,  one  evening  late  in  Feb- 
ruary,  when  a  gentle  knock  was  heard  at  the  door.     He 


152  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

started  up,  and,  drawing  back  the  bar,  William  Stewart 
entered  the  apartment. 

"Allan,"  said  the  old  man,  "  I  have  come  to  have  some 
conversation  with  you,  and  would  have  come  sooner,  but 
pride  and  shame  kept  me  back.  I  fear  I  have  been  much 
to  blame." 

Thomson  motioned  him  to  a  seat,  and  sat  down  beside 
him. 

"  Farmer,"  he  said,  "  since  we  cannot  recall  the  past,  we 
had  perhaps  better  forget  it." 

The  old  man  bent  forward  his  head  till  it  rested  almost 
on  his  knee,  and  for  a  few  moments  remained  silent. 

"  I  fear,  Allan,  I  have  been  much  to  blame,"  he  at  length 
reiterated.  "Ye  maun  come  an'  see  Lillias.  She  is  ill, 
very  ill,  an'  I  fear  no  very  like  to  get  better.  Thomson 
was  stunned  by  the  intelligence,  and  answered  he  scarcely 
knew  what.  "  She  has  never  been  richt  hersel ',"  continued 
the  old  man,  "sin'  the  unlucky  day  when  you  an'  I  met  in 
the  burn  here ;  but  for  the  last  month  she  has  been  little 
out  o'  her  bed.  Since  mornin'  there  has  been  a  great 
change  on  her,  an'  she  wishes  to  see  you.  I  fear  we 
havena  meikle  time  to  spare,  an'  had  better  gang."  Thom- 
son followed  him  in  silence. 

They  reached  the  farm-house  of  Meikle  Farness,  and  en- 
tered the  chamber  where  the  maiden  lay.  A  bright  fire  of 
brushwood  threw  a  flickering  gloom  on  the  floor  and  raft- 
ers ;  and  their  shadows,  as  they  advanced,  seemed  dancing 
on  the  walls.  Close  beside  the  bed  there  was  a  small  ta- 
ble, bearing  a  lighted  candle,  and  with  a  Bible  lying  open 
upon  it  at  that  chapter  of  Corinthians  in  which  the  apos- 
tle assures  us  that  the  dead  shall  rise,  and  the  mortal  put 
on  immortality.  Lillias  half  sat,  half  reclined,  in  the  upper 
part  of  the  bed.     Her  thin  and  wasted  features  had  already 


THE    SALMOX-FISHER   OF   UDOLL.  153 

the  stiff  rigidity  of  death  ;  her  cheeks  and  lips  were  color, 
less;  and  though  the  blaze  seemed  to  dance  and  flicker  on 
her  half-closed  eyes,  they  served  no  longer  to  intimate  to 
the  departing  spirit  the  existence  of  external  things. 

"Ah,  my  Lillias  !  "  exclaimed  Thomson,  as  he  bent  over 
her,  his  heart  swelling  with  an  intense  agony.  "  Alas  !  has 
it  come  to  this  ! " 

His  well-known  voice  served  to  recall  her  as  from  the 
precincts  of  another  world.  A  faint  melancholy  smile 
passed  over  her  features,  and  she  held  out  her  hand. 

"  I  was  afraid,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  sweet  and  gentle  as 
ever,  though  scarcely  audible,  through  extreme  weakness, 
—  "I  was  afraid  that  I  was  never  to  see  you  more.  Draw 
nearer ;  there  is  a  darkness  coining  over  me,  and  I  hear 
but  imperfectly.  I  may  now  say  with  a  propriety  which 
no  one  will  challenge,  what  I  durst  not  have  said  before. 
Need  I  tell  you  that  you  were  the  dearest  of  all  my  friends, 
the  only  man  I  have  ever  loved,  the  man  whose  lot, 
however  low  and  unprosperous,  I  would  have  deemed  it  a 
happiness  to  be  invited  to  share?  I  do  not,  however,  I 
cannot  reproach  you.  I  depart,  and  forever ;  but  oh!  let 
not  a  single  thought  of  me  render  you  unhappy.  My  few 
years  of  life  have  not  been  without  their  pleasures,  and  I  go 
to  a  better  and  brighter  world.  I  am  weak,  and  cannot  say 
more  ;  but  let  me  hear  you  speak.  Read  to  me  the  eighth 
chapter  of  Romans." 

Thomson,  with  a  voice  tremulous  and  faltering  through 
emotion,  read  the  chapter.  Ere  he  had  made  an  end,  the 
maiden  had  again  sunk  into  the  state  of  apparent  insensi- 
bility out  of  which  she  had  been  so  lately  awakened  ;  though 
occasionally  a  faint  pressure  of  his  hand,  which  she  still  re- 
tained, showed  him  that  she  was  not  unconscious  of  his 
presence.     At  length,  however,  there  was  a  total  relaxation 


154  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

of  the  grasp  ;  the  cold  damp  of  the  stiffening  palm  struck  a 
chill  to  his  heart ;  there  was  a  fluttering  of  the  pulse,  a 
glazing  of  the  eye  ;  the  breast  ceased  to  heave,  the  heart  to 
beat ;  the  silver  cord  parted  in  twain,  and  the  golden  bowl 
was  broken.  Thomson  contemplated  for  a  moment  the 
body  of  his  mistress,  and,  striking  his  hand  against  his 
forehead,  rushed  out  of  the  apartment. 

He  attended  her  funeral ;  he  heard  the  earth  falling 
heavy  and  hollow  on  the  coffin-lid  ;  he  saw  the  green  sod 
placed  over  her  grave ;  he  witnessed  the  irrepressible  an- 
guish of  her  father,  and  the  sad  regret  of  her  friends;  and 
all  this  without  shedding  a  tear.  He  was  turning  to  de- 
part,  when  some  one  thrust  a  letter  into  his  hand.  He 
opened  it  almost  mechanically.  It  contained  a  consider- 
ate sum  of  money,  and  a  few  lines  from  his  agent,  stating 
that,  in  consequence  of  a  favorable  change  in  his  circum- 
stances, he  had  been  enabled  to  satisfy  all  his  creditors. 
Thomson  crumpled  up  the  bills  in  his  hand.  He  felt  as  if 
his  heart  stood  still  in  his  breast;  a  noise  seemed  ringing 
in  his  ears ;  a  mist-cloud  appeared,  as  if  rising  out  of  the 
earth  and  darkening  around  him.  He  was  caught,  when 
falling,  by  old  William  Stewart ;  and,  on  awakening  to 
consciousness  and  the  memory  of  the  past,  found  himself 
in  his  arms.  He  lived  for  about  ten  years  after  a  laborious 
and  speculative  man,  ready  to  oblige,  and  successful  in  all 
his  designs ;  and  no  one  deemed  him  unhappy.  It  was 
observed,  however,  that  his  dark  brown  hair  was  soon  min- 
gled with  masses  of  gray,  and  that  his  tread  became  heavy 
and  his  frame  bent.  It  was  remarked,  too,  that  when 
attacked  by  a  lingering  epidemic,  which  passed  over  well- 
nigh  the  whole  country,  he  of  all  the  people  was  the  only 
one  that  sunk  under  it. 


IV. 

THE  WIDOW   OF   DUNSKAITH. 

CHAPTER  I. 

"  Oh,  mony  a  shriek,  that  waefu'  night, 

Rose  frae  the  stormy  main ; 
An'  mony  a  bootless  vow  was  made, 

An'  mony  a  prayer  vain; 
An'  mithers  wept,  an'  widows  mourned, 

For  mony  a  weary  day ; 
An'  maidens,  ance  o'  blithest  mood, 

Grew  sad,  an'  pined  away." 

The  northern  Sutor  of  Cromarty  is  of  a  bolder  char- 
acter than  even  the  southern  one,  abrupt  and  stern  and 
precipitous  as  that  is.  It  presents  a  loftier  and  more  un- 
broken wall  of  rock  ;  and,  where  it  bounds  on  the  Moray- 
Frith,  there  is  a  savage  magnificence  in  its  cliffs  and  caves, 
and  in  the  wild  solitude  of  its  beach,  which  avc  find  no- 
whore  etpialled  on  the  shores  of  the  other.  It  is  more  ex- 
posed, too,  in  the  time  of  tempest.  The  waves  often  rise, 
during  the  storms  of  winter,  more  than  a  hundred  feet 
against  its  precipices,  festooning  them,  even  at  that  height, 
with  wreaths  of  kelp  and  tangle  ;  and  for  miles  within  the 
bay  we  may  hear,  at  such  seasons,  the  savage  uproar  that 
maddens  amid  its  cliffs  and  caverns,  coming  booming  over 
the  lashings  of  the  nearer  waves  like  a  roar  of  artillery. 
There  is  a  sublimity  of  desolation  on  its  shores,  the  effects 


156  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

of  a  conflict  maintained  for  ages,  and  on  a  scale  so  gigan- 
tic.    The  isolated  spire-like  crags  that  rise  along  its  base 
are  so  drilled  and  bored  by  the  incessant  lashings  of  the 
surf,  and  are  ground  clown  into  shapes  so  fantastic,  that 
they  seem  but  the  wasted  skeletons  of  their  former  selves ; 
and  we  find  almost  every  natural  fissure  in  the  solid  rock 
hollowed    into  an    immense    cavern,  whose   very  ceiling, 
though  the  head  turns  as  we  look  up  to  it,  owes,  evidently, 
its  comparative  smoothness   to  the  action  of  the  waves. 
One  of  the  most   remarkable  of  these  recesses    occupies 
what  Ave  may  term  the  apex  of  a  lofty  promontory.     The 
entrance,  unlike  most  of  the  others,  is  narrow   and  ru<r- 
ged,  though  of  great  height ;  but  it  widens  within  into  a 
shadowy  chamber,  perplexed,  like  the  nave  of  a  cathedral, 
by    uncertain    cross-lights,  that  come  glimmering   into  it 
through  two  lesser  openings  which  perforate  the  opposite 
sides  of  the  promontory.     It  is  a  strange,  ghostly-looking 
place.     There  is  a  sort  of  moonlight  greenness  in  the  twi- 
light which  forms  its  noon,  and  the  denser  shadows  which 
rest  along  its  sides  ;  a  blackness,  so  profound  that  it  mocks 
the  eye,  hangs  over  a  lofty  passage  which  leads  from  it, 
like  a  corridor,  still  deeper  into  the  bowels  of  the  hill ;  the 
light  falls  on  a  sprinkling  of  half-buried  bones,  the  remains 
of  animals  that  in  the  depth  of  winter  have  creeped  into 
it  for  shelter  and  to  die  ;  and  when  the  winds  are  up,  and 
the  hoarse  roar  of  the  waves  comes  reverberated  from  its 
inner  recesses,  or  creeps  howling  along  its  roof,  it  needs 
no  over-active  fancy  to  people  its  avenues  with  the  shapes 
of  beings  long  since  departed  from  every  gayer  and  softer 
scene,  but   which  still  rise  uncalled    to  the   imagination, 
in  those  by-corners  of  nature  which  seem  dedicated,  like 
this  cavern,  to  the  wild,  the  desolate,  and  the  solitary. 
There  is  a  little  rocky  bay  a  few  hundred  yards  to  the 


THE    WIDOW    OF   DUNSKAITH.  157 

west,  which  has  been  known  for  ages  to  all  the  seafaring 
men  of  the  place  as  the  Cova  Green.  It  is  such  a  place  as 
we  are  sometimes  made  acquainted  with  in  the  narrative 
of  disastrous  shipwrecks.  First,  there  is  a  broad  semi- 
circular strip  of  beach,  with  a  wilderness  of  insulated  piles 
of  rock  in  front ;  and  so  steep  and  continuous  is  the  wall 
of  precipices  which  rises  behind,  that,  though  we  may  see 
directly  over  head  the  grassy  slopes  of  the  hill,  with  here 
and  there  a  few  straggling  firs,  no  human  foot  ever  gained 
ihe  nearer  edge.  The  bay  of  the  Cova  Green  is  a  prison 
to  which  the  sea  presents  the  only  outlet ;  and  the  numer- 
ous caves  which  open  along  its  sides,  like  the  arches  of 
an  amphitheatre,  seem  but  its  darker  cells.  It  is  in  truth 
a  wild,  impressive  place,  full  of  beauty  and  terror,  and 
with  none  of  the  squalidness  of  the  mere  dungeon  about 
it.  There  is  a  puny  littleness  in  our  brick  and  lime  recep- 
tacles of  misery  and  languor,  which  speaks  as  audibly  of 
the  feebleness  of  man  as  of  his  crimes  or  his  inhumanity  ; 
but  here  all  is  great  and  magnificent,  and  there  is  much, 
too,  that  is  pleasing.  Many  of  the  higher  cliffs,  which 
rise  beyond  the  influence  of  the  spray,  are  tapestried  with 
ivy.  We  may  see  the  heron  watching  on  the  ledges  be- 
side her  bundle  of  withered  twigs,  or  the  blue  hawk  dart- 
ing from  her  cell.  There  is  life  on  every  side  of  us ;  life 
in  even  the  wild  tumbling  of  the  waves,  and  in  the  stream 
of  pure  water  which,  rushing  from  the  higher  edge  of  the 
precipice  in  a  long  white  cord,  gradually  untwists  itself 
by  the  way,  and  spatters  ceaselessly  among  the  stones 
over  the  entrance  of  one  of  the  caves.  Nor  does  the  scene 
want  its  old  story  to  strengthen  its  hold  on  the  imagina- 
tion. 

I    am    wretchedly  uncertain  in  my  dates ;  but  it  must 

have  been  some  time  late  in    the  reign  of  Queen  Anne, 
14 


158  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

that  a  fishing  yawl,  after  vainly  laboring  for  hours  to  enter 
the  bay  of  Cromarty,  during  a  strong  gale  from  the  west, 
was  forced  at  nightfall  to  relinquish  the  attempt,  and  take 
shelter  in  the  Cova  Green.  The  crew  consisted  of  but 
two  persons,  —  an  old  fisherman  and  his  tson.  Both  had 
been  thoroughly  drenched  by  the  spray,  and  chilled  by  the 
piercing  wind,  which,  accompanied  by  thick  snow  show- 
ers, had  blown  all  day  through  the  opening  from  off  the 
snowy  top  of  Ben  Wyvis  ;  and  it  was  with  no  ordinary 
satisfaction  that,  as  they  opened  the  little  bay  on  their 
last  tack,  they  saw  the  red  gleam  of  a  fire  flickering  from 
one  of  the  caves,  and  a  boat  drawn  upon  the  beach. 

"  It  must  be  some  of  the  Tarbet  fishermen,"  said  the  old 
man,  "wind-bound,  like  ourselves,  but  wiser  than  us  in 
having  made  provision  for  it.  I  shall  feel  willing  enough 
to  share  their  fire  with  them  for  the  night." 

"  But  see,"  remarked  the  younger,  "  that  there  be  no 
unwillingness  on  the  other  side.  I  am  much  mistaken  if 
that  be  not  the  boat  of  my  cousins  the  Macinlas,  who 
would  so  fain  have  broken  my  head  last  Rhorichie  Tryst. 
But,  hap  what  may,  father,  the  night  is  getting  worse,  and 
we  have  no  choice  of  quarters.  Hard  up  your  helm,  or 
we  shall  barely  clear  the  skerries.  There,  now ;  every 
nail  an  anchor."  He  leaped  ashore,  carrying  with  him 
the  small  hawser  attached  to  the  stern,  which  he  wound 
securely  round  a  jutting  crag,  and  then  stood  for  a  few 
seconds,  until  the  old  man,  who  moved  but  heavily  along 
the  thwarts,  had  come  up  to  him.  All  was  comparatively 
calm  under  the  lee  of  the  precipices ;  but  the  wind  was 
roaring  fearfully  in  the  woods  above,  and  whistling  amid 
the  furze  and  ivy  of  the  higher  cliff;  and  the  two  boat- 
men, as  they  entered   the  cave,  could  see  the  flakes  of 


THE    WIDOW    OF    DUNSKAITH.  159 

a  thick  snow  shower,  that  had  just   begun  to  descend, 
circling  round  and  round  in  the  eddy. 

The  place  was  occupied  by  three  men,  who  were  sitting 
beside  the  fire  on  blocks  of  stone  which  had  been  rolled 
from  the  beach.  Two  of  them  were  young,  and  compara- 
tively commonplace-looking  persons;  the  third  was  a  gray- 
headed  old  'man,  apparently  of  great  muscular  strength, 
though  long  past  his  prime,  and  of  a  peculiarly  sinister  cast 
of  countenance.  A  keg  of  spirits,  which  was  placed  end 
up  in  front  of  them,  served  as  a  table  ;  there  were  little 
drinking  measures  of  tin  on  it;  and  the  mask-like,  stolid 
expressions  of  the  two  younger  men  showed  that  they  had 
been  indulging  freely.  The  elder  was  apparently  sober. 
Thev  all  started  to  their  feet  on  the  entrance  of  the  fisher- 
man,  and  one  of  the  younger,  laying  hold  of  the  little  cask, 
pitched  it  hurried y  into  a  dark  corner  of  the  cave. 

"  His  peace  be  here  !  "  was  the  simple  greeting  of  the 
elder  fisherman  as  he  came  forward.  "  Eachen  Macinla," 
he  continued,  addressing  the  old  man,  "  we  have  not  met 
for  years  before,  —  not,  I  believe,  since  the  death  o'  my 
puir  sister,  when  we  parted  such  ill  friends ;  but  we  are 
short-lived  creatures  oursels,  Eachen  ;  surely  our  anger 
should  be  short-lived  too ;  and  I  have  come  to  crave  from 
you  a  seat  by  your  fire." 

"William  Beth,"  replied  Eachen,  "it  was  no  wish  of 
mine  we  should  ever  meet;  but  to  a  seat  by  the  fire  you 
are  welcome." 

Old  Macinla  and  his  sons  resumed  their  seats  ;  the  two 
fishermen  took  their  places  fronting  them  ;  and  for  some 
time  neither  party  exchanged  a  word. 

A  fire,  composed  mostly  of  fragments  of  wreck  and  drift- 
wood, threw  up  its  broad,  cheerful  flame  towards  the  roof; 
but  so  spacious  was  the  cavern,  that,  except  where  here 


160  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

and  there  a  whiter  mass  of  stalactites  or  bolder  projection 
of  cliff  stood  out  from  the  darkness,  the  light  seemed  lost 
in  it.  A  dense  body  of  smoke,  which  stretched  its  blue 
level  surface  from  side  to  side,  and  concealed  the  roof,  went 
rolling  outwards  like  an  inverted  river. 

"  This  is  but  a  gousty  lodging-place,"  remarked  the  old 
fisherman,  as  he  looked  round  him;  "but  I- have  seen  a 
worse.  I  wish  the  folk  at  hame  kent  we  were  half  sae 
snug;  and  then  the  fire,  too,  —  I  have  always  felt  some- 
thing companionable  in  a  fire,  something  consolable,  as  it 
were ;  it  appears,  somehow,  as  if  it  were  a  creature  like 
ourselves,  and  had  life  in  it."  The  remark  seemed  directed 
to  no  one  in  particular,  and  there  was  no  reply.  In  a 
second  attempt  at  conversation,  the  fisherman  addressed 
himself  to  the  old  man. 

"  It  has  vexed  me,"  he  said,  "  that  our  young  folk  should- 
na,  for  my  sister's  sake,  be  on  more  friendly  terms,  Eachen. 
They  hae  been  quarrelling,  an'  I  wish  to  see  the  quarrel 
made  up."  The  old  man,  without  deigning  a  reply,  knit 
his  gray,  shaggy  brows,  and  looked  doggedly  at  the  fire. 

"Nay,  now,"  continued  the  fisherman,  "we  are  getting 
auld  men,  Eachen,  an'  wauld  better  bury  our  hard  thoughts 
o'  ane  anither  afore  we  come  to  be  buried  ourselves.  What 
if  we  were  sent  to  the  Cova  Green  the  night,  just  that  we 
might  part  friends !  " 

Eachen  fixed  his  keen,  scrutinizing  glance  on  the  speaker, 
—  it  was  but  for  a  moment,  —  there  was  a  tremulous 
motion  of  the  under  lip  as  he  withdrew  it,  and  a  setting  of 
the  teeth,  —  the  expression  of  mingled  hatred  and  anger; 
but  the  tone  of  his  reply  savored  more  of  sullen  indiffer- 
ence than  of  passion. 

"  William  Beth,"  he  said,  "  ye  hae  tricked  my  boys  out 
o'  the  bit  property  that  suld  hae  come  to  them  by  their 


THE    WIDOW    OF    DUNSKAITH.  161 

mother ;  it's  no  lang  since  they  barely  escaped  being  mur- 
dered by  your  son.  What  more  want  you  ?  But  ye 
perhaps  think  it  better  that  the  time  should  be  passed  in 
making  hollow  lip.  professions  of  good-will,  than  that  it  suld 
be  employed  in  clearing  off  an  old  score." 

"  Ay,"  hickuped  out  the  elder  of  the  two  sons  ;  "  the 
houses  might  come  my  way  then  ;  an',  besides,  gin  Helen 
Henry  were  to  lose  her  a'e  jo,  the  ither  might  hae  a  better 
chance.  Rise,  brither !  rise,  man  !  an'  fight  for  me  an' 
your  sweet-heart."  The  younger  lad,  who  seemed  verging 
towards  the  last  stage  of  intoxication,  struck  his  clenched 
fist  against  his  palm,  and  attempted  to  rise. 

"  Look  ye,  uncle,"  exclaimed  the  younger  fisherman,  — 
a  powerful-looking  and  very  handsome  stripling, —  as  he 
sprang  to  his  feet ;  "  your  threat  might  be  spared.  Our  lit- 
tle property  was  my  grandfather's,  and  naturally  descended 
to  his  only  son  ;  and  as  for  the  affair  at  Rhorichie,  I  dare 
either  of  my  cousins  to  say  the  quarrel  was  of  my  seeking. 
I  have  no  wish  to  raise  my  hand  against  the  sons  or  the 
husband  of  my  aunt;  but  if  forced  to  it,  you  will  find  that 
neither  my  lather  nor  myself  are  wholly  at  your  mercy." 

"  Whisht,  Earnest,"  said  the  old  fisherman,  laying  his 
hand  on  the  hand  of  the  young  man  ;  "sit  down;  your  uncle 
maun  hae  ither  thoughts.  It  is  now  fifteen  years,  Eachen," 
he  continued,  "since  I  was  called  to  my  sister's  deathbed. 
You  yoursel' canna  forget  what  passed  there.  There  had 
been  grief  an'  cauld  an'  hunger  beside  that  bed.  I'll  no 
say  you  were  willingly  unkind,  —  few  folk  are  that,  but 
when  they  hae  some  purpose  to  serve  by  it,  an'  you  could 
have  none,  —  but  you  laid  no  restraint  on  a  harsh  temper, 
and  none  on  a  craving  habit  that  forgets  everything  but 
itsel' ;  and  so  my  puir  sister  perished  in  the  middle  o'  her 
days,  a  wasted,  heart-broken  thing.  It's  no  that  I  wish  to 
14* 


162  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

hurt  you.  I  mind  how  we  passed  our  youth  thegither 
among  the  wild  buccaneers.  It  was  a  bad  school,  Eachen ; 
an'  I  owre  often  feel  I  havena  unlearned  a'  my  ain  lessons, 
to  wonder  that  you  shouldna  hae  unlearned  a'  yours.  But 
we're  getting  old  men  Eachen,  an'  we  have  now,  what 
we  hadna  in  our  young  days,  the  advantage  o'  the  light. 
Dinna  let  us  die  fools  in  the  sight  o'  Him  who  is  so  willing 
to  give  us  wisdom  ;  dinna  let  us  die  enemies.  We  have  been 
early  friends,  though  maybe  no  for  good,  we  have  fought 
afore  now  at  the  same  gun  ;  we  have  been  united  by  the 
luve  o'  her  that's  now  in  the  dust;  an'  there  are  our  boys, 
—  the  nearest  o'  kin  to  ane  anither  that  death  has  spared. 
But  what  I  feel  as  strongly  as  a'  the  rest,  Eachen,  we  hae 
done  meikle  ill  thegither.  I  can  hardly  think  o'  a  past  sin 
without  thinking  o'  you,  an'  thinking,  too,  that  if  a  crea- 
ture like  me  may  hope  he  has  found  pardon,  you  shouldna 
despair.     Eachen,  we  maun  be  friends." 

The  features  of  the  stern  old  man  relaxed.  "You  are 
perhaps  right,  William,"  he  at  length  replied  ;  "  but  ye 
were  aye  a  luckier  man  than  me,  —  luckier  for  this  world, 
I'm  sure,  an'  maybe  for  the  next.  I  had  aye  to  seek,  an' 
aften  without  finding,  the  good  that  came  in  your  gate  o' 
itsel'.  Now  that  age  is  coming  upon  us,  ye  get  a  snug 
rental  frae  the  little  houses,  an'  I  hae  naething  ;  an'  ye 
hae  character  an'  credit ;  but  wha  would  trust  me,  or  cares 
for  me  ?  Ye  hae  been  made  an  elder  o'  the  kirk,  too,  I 
hear,  an'  I  am  still  a  reprobate  ;  but  we  were  a'  born  to  be 
just  what  Ave  are,  an'  sae  maun  submit.  An'  your  son,  too, 
shares  in  your  luck.  He  has  heart  an'  hand,  an'  my  whelps 
hae  neither;  an'  the  girl  Henry,  that  scouts  that  sot  there, 
likes  him  ;  but  what  wonder  o'  that?  But  you  are  right, 
William  ;  we  maun  be  friends.  Pledge  me."  The  little 
cask  was  produced ;  and,  filling  the  measures,  he  nodded 


THE   WIDOW   OF   DUNSKAITH.  163 

to  Earnest  and  his  father.  They  pledged  him,  when,  as  if 
seized  by  a  sudden  frenzy,  he  filled  his  measure  thrice  in 
hasty  succession,  draining  it  each  time  to  the  bottom,  and 
then  flung  it  down  with  a  short,  hoarse  laugh.  His  sons, 
who  would  fain  have  joined  with  him,  he  repulsed  with  a 
firmness  of  manner  which  he  had  not  before  exhibited. 
"No,  whelps,"  he  said ;  "get  sober  as  fast  as  ye  can." 

"  We  had  better,"  whispered  Earnest  to  his  father,  "  not 
sleep  in  the  cave  to-night." 

"  Let  me  hear  now  o'  your  quarrel,  Earnest,"  said  Ea- 
chan  ;  "your  father  was  a  more  prudent  man  than  you; 
and,  however  much  he  wronged  me,  did  it  without  quar- 
relling." 

"The  quarrel  was  none  of  my  seeking,"  replied  Earnest. 
"  I  was  insulted  by  your  sons,  and  would  have  borne  it  for 
the  sake  of  what  they  seemed  to  forget;  but  there  was 
another  whom  they  also  insulted,  and  that  I  could  not 
bear." 

"  The  girl  Henry.     And  what  then  ?  " 

"  Why,  my  cousins  may  tell  the  rest.  They  were  mean 
enough  to  take  odds  against  me,  and  I  just  beat  the  two 
spiritless  fellows  that  did  so." 

But  why  record  the  quarrels  of  this  unfortunate  evening? 
An  hour  or  two  passed  away  in  disagreeable  bickerings, 
during  which  the  patience  of  even  the  old  fisherman  was 
worn  out,  and  that  of  Earnest  had  failed  him  altogether. 
They  both  quitted  the  cave,  boisterous  as  the  night  Avas,  — 
and  it  was  now  stormier  than  ever, —  and,  heaving  off  their 
boat  till  she  rode  at  the  full  length  of  her  swing  from  the 
shore,  sheltered  themselves  under  the  sail.  The  Macinlas 
returned  next  evening  to  Tarbet ;  but,  though  the  wind 
moderated  during  the  day,  the  yawl  of  William  Beth  did 
not  enter   the  Bay  of  Cromarty.     Weeks   passed    away, 


164  TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

during  which  the  clergyman  of  the  place  corresponded 
regarding  the  missing  fisherman  with  all  the  lower  parts 
of  the  Frith,  but  they  had  disappeared,  as  it  seemed,  for 
ever. 


CHAPTER  II. 
HELEN'S   VISION. 

Where  the  northern  Sutor  sinks  into  the  low  sandy 
tract  that  nearly  fronts  the  town  of  Cromarty,  there  is  a 
narrow  grassy  terrace  raised  but  a  few  yards  over  the  level 
of  the  beach.  It  is  sheltered  behind  by  a  steep,  undulating 
bank  ;  for,  though  the  rock  here  and  there  juts  out,  it  is  too 
rich  in  vegetation  to  be  termed  a  precipice.  It  is  a  sweet 
little  spot,  with  its  grassy  slopes,  that  recline  towards  the 
sun,  partially  covered  with  thickets  of  wild  rose  and  honey- 
suckle, and  studded  in  their  season  with  violets  and  daisies 
and  the  delicate  rock  geranium.  Towards  its  eastern  ex- 
tremity, with  the  bank  rising  immediately  behind,  and  an 
open  space  in' front,  which  seemed  to  have  been  cultivated 
at  one  time  as  a  garden,  there  stood  a  picturesque  little 
cottage.  It  was  that  of  the  widow  of  William  Beth.  Five 
years  had  now  elapsed  since  the  disappearance  of  her  son 
and  husband,  and  the  cottage  bore  the  marks  of  neglect 
and  decay.  The  door  and  window,  bleached  white  by  the 
sea-winds,  shook  loosely  to  every  breeze  ;  clusters  of  chick- 
weed  luxuriated  in  the  hollows  of  the  thatch,  or  mantled 
over  the  eaves  ;  and  a  honeysuckle,  that  had  twisted  itself 
round  the  chimney,  lay  withering  in  a  tangled  mass  at  the 
foot  of  the  wall. 

But  the  progress  of  decay  was  more  marked  in  the  widow 


THE   WIDOW   OF  DUNSKAITH.  165 

herself  than  in  her  dwelling.  She  had  had  to  contend  with 
grief  and  penury  ;  a  grief  not  the  less  undermining  in  its 
effects  from  the  circumstance  of  its  being  sometimes  sus- 
pended by  hope  ;  a  penury  so  extreme  that  every  succeed- 
ing day  seemed  as  if  won  by  some  providential  interference 
from  absolute  want.  And  she  was  now,  to  all  appearance, 
fast  sinking  in  the  struggle.  The  autumn  was  well-nigh 
over.  She  had  been  weak  and  ailing  for  months  before, 
and  had  now  become  so  feeble  as  to  be  confined  for  days 
together  to  her  bed.  But,  happily,  the  poor  solitary  wo- 
man had  at  least  one  attached  friend  in  the  daughter  of  a 
farmer  of  the  parish,  a  young  and  beautiful  girl,  who, 
though  naturally  of  no  melancholy  temperament,  seemed 
to  derive  almost  all  she  enjoyed  of  pleasure  from  the  soci- 
ety of  the  widow.  Helen  Henry  was  in  her  twenty-first 
year,  but  she  seemed  older  in  spirit  than  in  years.  She 
was  thin  and  pale,  though  exquisitely  formed.  There  was 
;i  drooping  heaviness  in  her  fine  eyes,  and  a  cast  of  pensive 
thought  on  her  forehead,  that  spoke  of  a  longer  experience 
of  grief  than  so  brief  a  portion  of  life  might  be  supposed 
to  have  furnished.  She  had  once  lovers,  but  they  had 
gradually  dropped  away  in  the  despair  of  moving  her,  and 
awed  by  a  deep  and  settled  pcnsiveness,  which,  in  Hie 
gayest  season  of  youth,  her  character  had  suddenly  but 
permanently  assumed.  Besides,  they  all  knew  her  affec- 
tions were  already  engaged,  and  had  come  to  learn,  though 
late  and  unwillingly,  that  there  are  cases  in  which  no  rival 
can  be  more  formidable  than  a  dead  one. 

Autumn,  I  have  said,  was  near  its  close.  The  weather 
had  given  indications  of  an  early  and  severe  winter ;  and 
the  widow,  whose  worn-out  and  delicate  frame  was  affected 
by  every  change  of  atmosphere,  had  for  a  few  days  been 
more  than  usually  indisposed.     It  was  now  long  past  noon, 


166  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

and  she  had  but  just  risen.  The  apartment,  however,  bore 
witness  that  her  young  friend  had  paid  her  the  accustomed 
morning  visit ;  the  fire  was  blazing  on  a  clean,  comfortable- 
looking  hearth,  and  every  little  piece  of  furniture  it  con- 
tained was  arranged  with  the  most  scrupulous  care.  Her 
devotions  were  hardly  over  when  the  well-known  tap  was 
again  heard  at  the  door. 

"Come  in,  my  lassie,"  said  the  widow;  and  then  lower- 
ing her  voice,  as  the  light  foot  of  her  friend  was  heard  on 
the  threshold,  "  God,"  she  said,  "  has  been  ever  kind  to 
me  ;  far,  very  far,  aboon  my  best  deservings ;  and  oh,  may 
he  bless  and  reward  her  who  has  done  so  meikle,  meikle 
for  me !  "  The  young  girl  entered  and  took  her  seat  be- 
side her. 

"You  told  me,  mother,"  she  said,  "that  to-morrow  is 
Earnest's  birthday.  I  have  been  thinking  of  it  all  last 
night,  and  feel  as  if  my  heart  were  turning  into  stone. 
But  when  I  am  alone  it  is  always  so.  There  is  a  cold, 
death-like  weight  at  my  breast,  that  makes  me  unhappy ; 
though,  when  I  come  to  you,  and  we  speak  together,  the 
feeling  passes  away,  and  I  become  cheerful." 

"  Ah,  my  bairn,"  replied  the  old  woman,  "  I  fear  I'm  no 
your  friend,  meikle  as  I  love  you.  We  speak  owre,  owre 
often  o'  the  lost,  for  our  foolish  hearts  find  mair  pleasure 
in  that  than  in  anything  else  ;  but  ill  does  it  fit  us  for  being 
alone.  Weel  do  I  ken  your  feeling,  —  a  stone  deadness  o' 
the  heart, —  a  feeling  there  are  no  words  to  express,  but 
that  seems  as  it  were  insensibility  itself  turning  into  pain; 
and  I  ken,  too,  my  lassie,  that  it  is  nursed  by  the  very 
means  ye  tak  to  flee  from  it.  Ye  maun  learn  to  think  mair 
o'  the  living,  and  less  o'  the  dead.  Little,  little  does  it 
matter  how  a  puir  worn-out  creature  like  me  passes  the 
few  broken  days  o'  life  that  remains  to  her;  but  ye  are 


THE    WIDOW    OF   DUNSKAITH.  167 

young,  my  Helen,  an'  the  world  is  a'  before  you ;  and  ye 
maun  just  try  an'  live  for  it." 

"  To-morrow,"  rejoined  Helen,  "  is  Earnest's  birthday. 
Is  it  no  strange  that,  when  our  minds  make  pictures  o'  the 
dead,  it  is  always  as  they  looked  best  an'  kindest  an'  maist 
life-like;  I  have  been  seeing  Earnest  all  night  long,  as 
when  I  saw  him  on  his  last  birthday ;  an'  oh,  the  sharp- 
ness o'  the  pang,  when,  every  now  an'  then,  the  back  o'  the 
picture  is  turned  to  me,  an'  I  see  him  as  he  is,  —  dust ! " 

The  widow  grasped  her  young  friend  by  the  hand. 
"Helen,"  she  said,  "you  will  get  better  when  I  am  taken 
from  you ;  but  so  long  as  we  continue  to  meet,  our  thoughts 
will  aye  be  running  the  one  way.  I  had  a  strange  dream 
last  night,  an'  must  tell  it  to  you.  You  see  yon  rock  to 
the  east,  in  the  middle  o'  the  little  bay,  that  now  rises 
through  the  back  draught  o'  the  sea,  like  the  hull  o'  a  ship, 
itii'  is  now  buried  in  a  mountain  o'  foam  ?  I  dreamed  I 
was  sitting  on  that  rock,  in  what  seemed  a  bonny  summer's 
morning.  The  sun  was  glancin'  on  the  water,  an'  I  could 
see  the  white  sand  far  down  at  the  bottom,  wi'  the  reflec- 
tion o'  the  little  wavies  running  o'er  it  in  lono-  curls  o' 
goud.  But  there  was  no  way  o'  leaving  the  rock,  for  the 
<h'c\>  waters  were  round  an'  round  me;  an'  I  saw  the  tide 
covering  one  wee  bittie  after  another,  till  at  last  the  whole 
was  covered.  An'  yet  I  had  but  little  fear;  for  I  remem- 
bered that  baith  Earnest  an'  William  were  in  the  sea  aline 
me;  an'  I  had  the  feeling  that  I  could  hae  rest  nowhere 
hut  wi'  them.  The  water  at  last  closed  o'er  me,  an'  I 
sank  frae  aff  the  rock  to  the  sand  at  the  bottom.  Hut, 
death  seemed  to  have  no  power  given  him  to  hurt  me; 
an'  1  walked  as  light  as  ever  I  hae  done  on  a  gowany  brae, 
through  the  green  depths  o'  the  sea.  I  saw  the  silvery 
glitter  o'  the  trout  an'  the  salmon  shining  to  the  sun,  far, 


168  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

far  aboon  me,  like  white  pigeons  in  the  lift;  an'  around 
me  there  were  crimson  star-fish  an'  sea-flowers  an'  lono; 
trailing  plants,  that  waved  in  the  tide  like  streamers ;  an' 
at  length  I  came  to  a  steep  rock,  wi'  a  little  cave  like  a 
tomb  in  it.  'Here,'  I  said,  'is  the  end  o'  my  journey. 
William  is  here,  an'  Earnest.'  An',  as  I  looked  into  the 
cave,  I  saw  there  were  bones  in  it,  an'  I  prepared  to  take 
my  place  beside  them.  But,  as  I  stooped  to  enter,  some 
one  called  me,  an',  on  looking  up,  there  was  William. 
'Lillias,'  he  said,  'it  is  not  night  yet,  nor  is  that  your  bed; 
you  are  to  sleep,  not  with  me,  but  with  Earnest.  Haste 
you  home,  for  he  is  waiting  you.'  '  Oh,  take  me  to  him  ! ' 
I  said ;  an'  then  all  at  once  I  found  myself  on  the  shore, 
dizzied  an'  blinded  wi'  the  bright  sunshine ;  for  at  the  cave 
there  was  a  darkness  like  that  o'  a  simmer's  gloamin';  an' 
when  I  looked  up  for  William,  it  was  Earnest  that  stood 
before  me,  life-like  an'  handsome  as  ever;  an'  you  were 
beside  him." 

The  day  had  been  gloomy  and  lowering,  and,  though 
there  was  little  wind,  a  tremendous  sea,  that,  as  the  evening 
advanced,  rose  higher  and  higher  against  the  neighboring 
precipice,  had  been  rolling  ashore  since  morning.  The 
wind  now  began  to  blow  in  long  hollow  gusts  among  the 
cliffs,  and  the  rain  to  patter  against  the  widow's  casement. 

"  It  will  be  a  storm  from  the  sea,"  she  said  ;  "  the  scarts 
an'  gulls  hae  been  flying  landward  sin'  daybreak,  an'  I  hae 
never  seen  the  ground-swell  come  home  heavier  against 
the  rocks.     Wae's  me  for  the  puir  sailors !  " 

"  In  the  lang  stormy  nights,"  said  Helen,  "  I  canna  sleep 
for  thinking  o'  them,  though  I  have  no  one*  to  bind  me  to 
them  now.  Only  look  how  the  sea  rages  among  the  rocks, 
as  if  it  were  a  thing  o'  life  an'  passion  !  That  last  wave 
rose  to  the  crane's  nest.     An'  look,  yonder  is  a  boat  round- 


THE   WIDOW    OF  DUNSKAITH.  169 

ing  the  rock  wi'  only  a'e  man  in  it.  It  dances  on  the  surf 
as  if  it  were  a  cork ;  an'  the  wee  bittie  o'  sail,  sae  black  an' 
weet,  seems  scarcely  bigger  than  a  napkin.  Is  it  no  bear- 
ins:  in  for  the  boat-haven  below  ?  " 

"  My  poor  old  eyes,"  replied  the  widow,  "  are  growing 
dim,  an'  surely  no  wonder  ;  but  yet  I  think  I  should  ken 
that  boatman.     Is  it  no  Eachen  Macinla  o'  Tarbet  ?  " 

"  Hard-hearted,  cruel  old  man  !  "  exclaimed  the  maiden 
"  what  can  be  takin'  him  here  ?  Look  how  his  skiff  shoots 
in  like  an  arrow  on  the  long  roll  o'  the  surf!  an'  now  she  is 
high  on  the  beach.  How  unfeeling  it  was  o'  him  to  rob 
you  o'  your  little  property  in  the  very  first  o'  your  grief! 
But  see,  he  is  so  worn  out  that  he  can  hardly  walk  over 
the  rough  stones.  Ah  me !  he  is  down  ;  wretched  old  man, 
I  must  run  to  his  assistance.  But  no ;  he  has  risen  again. 
See,  he  is  coming  straight  to  the  house  ;  an'  now  he  is  at  the 
door."     In  a  moment  after,  Eachen  entered  the  cottage. 

"  I  am  perishing,  Lillias,"  he  said,  "  with  cold  an'  hunger, 
an'  can  gang  nae  further ;  surely  ye'U  no  shut  your  door  on 
me  in  a  night  like  this." 

The  poor  widow  had  been  taught  in  a  far  different  school. 
She  relinquished  to  the  worn-out  fisherman  her  seat  by  the 
fire,  now  hurriedly  heaped  with  fresh  fuel,  and  hastened 
to  set  before  him  the  simple  viands  which  her  cottnge 
afforded. 

As  the  night  darkened,  the  storm  increased.  The  wind 
roared  among  the  rocks  like  the  rattling  of  a  thousand  car- 
riages over  a  paved  street ;  and  there  were  times  when, 
after  a  sudden  pause,  the  blast  struck  the  cottage  as  if  it 
were  a  huge  missile  flung  against  it,  and  pressed  on  its  roof 
and  walls  till  the  very  floor  rocked,  and  the  rafters  strained 
and  shivered  like  the  beams  of  a  stranded  vessel.  There 
was  a  ceaseless  patter  of  mingled  rain  and  snow,  now 
15 


170  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

lower,  now  louder  ;  and  the  fearful  thunderings  of  the 
waves,  as  they  raged  among  the  pointed  crags,  were  min- 
gled with  the  hoarse  roll  of  the  storm  along  the  beach. 
The  old  man  sat  beside  the  fire,  fronting  the  widow  and 
her  companion,  with  his  head  reclined  nearly  as  low  as  his 
knee,  and  his  hands  covering  his  face.  There  was  no  at- 
tempt at  conversation.  He  seemed  to  shudder  every  time 
the  blast  yelled  along  the  roof;  and,  as  a  fiercer  gust  burst 
open  the  door,  there  was  a  half-muttered  ejaculation. 

"  Heaven  itsel'  hae  mercy  on  them  !  for  what  can  man 
do  in  a  night  like  this  ?  " 

"  It  is  black  as  pitch,"  exclaimed  Helen,  who  had  risen 
to  draw  the  bolt ;  "  an'  the  drift  flies  sae  thick,  that  it  feels 
to  the  hand  like  a  solid  snaw  wreath.  An'  oh,  how  it 
lightens ! " 

"  Heaven  itsel'  hae  mercy  on  them !  "  again  ejaculated 
the  old  man.  "My  two  boys,"  said  he,  addressing  the 
widow,  "are  at  the  far  Frith  ;  an'  how  can  an  open  boat 
live  in  a  night  like  this  ?  " 

There  seemed  something  magical  in  the  communication, 
—  something  that  awakened  all  the  sympathies  of  the  poor 
bereaved  woman ;  and  she  felt  she  could  forgive  him  every 
unkindness. 

"  Wae's  me ! "  she  exclaimed  ;  "it  was  in  such  a  night  as 
this,  an'  scarcely  sae  wild,  that  my  Earnest  perished." 

The  old  man  groaned  and  wrung  his  hands. 

In  one  of  the  pauses  of  the  hurricane  there  was  a  gun 
heard  from  the  sea,  and  shortly  after  a  second.  "  Some 
puir  vessel  in  distress,"  said  the  widow  ;  "but,  alas  !  where 
can  succor  come  frae  in  sae  terrible  a  night  ?  There  is  help 
only  in  Ane.  Wae's  me  !  would  we  no  better  light  up  a 
blaze  on  the  floor,  an',  clearest  Helen,  draw  off  the  cover 
frae  the  window  ?     My  puir  Earnest  has  told  me  that  my 


THE   WIDOW   OF   DUNSKAITH.  171 

light  has  aften  showed  him  his  bearing  frae  the  deadly  bed 
o'  Dunskaitk.  That  last  gun,"  —  for  a  third  was  now  heard 
booming  over  the  mingled  roar  of  the  sea  and  the  wind,  — 
"  that  last  gun  cam'  frae  the  very  rock-edge.  Wae's  me, 
wae's  me !  maun  they  perish,  an'  sae  near  !  "  Helen  has- 
tily lighted  a  bundle  of  more  fir,  that  threw  up  its  red  sput- 
tering blaze  half  way  to  the  roof,  and,  dropping  the  cover- 
ing, continued  to  wave  it  opposite  the  window.  Guns  were 
still  heard  at  measured  intervals,  bat  apparently  from  a 
safer  offing;  and  at  last,  as  it  sounded  faintly  against  the 
wind,  came  evidently  from  the  interior  of  the  bay. 

"  She  has  escaped,"  said  the  old  man.  "  It's  a  feeble 
hand  that  canna  do  good  when  the  heart  is  willing.  But 
what  has  mine  been  doin'  a'  life  lang?".  He  looked  at 
the  window,  and  shuddered. 

Towards  morning  the  wind  fell,  and  the  moon,  in  her 
last  quarter,  rose  red  and  glaring  out  of  the  Frith,  lighting 
the  melancholy  roll  of  the  waves,  that  still  rose  like  moun- 
tains, and  the  broad  white  belt  of  surf  that  skirted  the 
shores.  The  old  fisherman  left  the  cottage,  and  sauntered 
along  the  beach.  It  was  heaped  with  huge  wreaths  of  kelp 
and  tangle,  uprooted  by  the  storm  ;  and  in  the  hollow  of  the 
rocky  bay  lay  the  scattered  fragments  of  a  boat.  Eachen 
stooped  to  pick  up  a  piece  of  the  wreck,  in  the  fearful  ex- 
pectation of  finding  some  known  mark  by  which  to  recog- 
nize it,  when  the  light  fell  full  on  the  swollen  face  of  a 
corpse  that  seemed  staring  at  him  from  out  a  wreath  of 
weed.  It  was  that  of  his  eldest  son.  The  body  of  the 
younger,  fearfully  gashed  and  mangled  by  the  rocks,  lay  a 
few    yards  further  to  the  east. 

The  morning  was  as  pleasant  as  the  night  had  been 
boisterous;  ami  except  that  the  distant  hills  were  covered 
with  snow,  and  that  a  swell  still  continued  to  roll  in  from 


172  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

the  sea,  there  remained  scarce  any  trace  of  the  recent  tem- 
pest. Every  hollow  of  the  neighboring  hill  had  its  little 
runnel,  formed  by  the  rains  of  the  previous  night,  that  now 
splashed  and  glistened  to  the  sun.  The  bushes  round  the 
cottage  were  well-nigh  divested  of  their  leaves ;  but  their 
red  berries,  hips  and  haws,  and  the  juicy  fruit  of  the  honey- 
suckle, gleamed  cheerfully  to  the  light;  and  a  warm  steam 
of  vapor,  like  that  of  a  May  morning,  rose  from  the  roof 
and  the  little  mossy  platform  in  front.  But  the  scene 
seemed  to  have  something  more  than  merely  its  beauty  to 
recommend  it  to  a  young  man,  drawn  apparently  to  the 
spot,  with  many  others,  by  the  fate  of  the  two  unfortunate 
fishermen,  and  who  now  stood  gazing  on  the  rocks  and  the 
hills  and  the  cottage,  as  a  lover  on  the  features  of  his  mis- 
tress. The  bodies  had  been  carried  to  an  old  store-house, 
which  may  still  be  seen  a  short  mile  to  the  west ;  and  the 
crowds  that,  during  the  early  part  of  the  morning,  had  been 
perambulating  the  beach,  gazing  at  the  wreck,  and  discuss- 
ing the  various  probabilities  of  the  accident,  had  gradually 
dispersed.  But  this  solitary  individual,  whom  no  one 
knew,  remained  behind.  He  was  a  tall  and  swarthy, 
though  very  handsome  man,  of  about  five-and-twenty,  with 
a  slight  scar  on  his  left  cheek.  His  dress,  which  was  plain 
and  neat,  was  distinguished  from  that  of  the  common  sea- 
man by  three  narrow  stripes  of  gold-lace  on  the  upper  part 
of  one  of  the  sleeves.  He  had  twice  stepped  towards  the 
cottage-door,  and  twice  drawn  back,  as  if  influenced  by 
some  unaccountable  feeling, — timidity,  perhaps,  or  bash- 
fulness  ;  and  yet  the  bearing  of  the  man  gave  little  indica- 
tion of  either.  But  at  length,  as  if  he  had  gathered  heart, 
he  raised  the  latch  and  went  in. 

The  widow,  who  had  had  many  visitors  that  morning, 
seemed  to  be  scarcely  aware  of  his  entrance.     She   was 


THE   WIDOW    OP   DUNSKAITH.  173 

sitting  on  a  low  seat  beside  the  fire,  her  face  covered  with 
her  hands  ;  while  the  tremulous  rocking  motion  of  her 
body  showed  that  she  was  still  brooding  over  the  distresses 
of  the  previous  night.  Her  companion,  who  had  thrown 
herself  across  the  bed,  was  fast  asleep.  The  stranger  seated 
himself  beside  the  fire,  which  seemed  dying  amid  its  ashes ; 
and,  turning  sedulously  from  the  light  of  the  window,  laid 
his  hand  gently  on  the  widow's  shoulder.  She  started,  and 
looked  up. 

"I  have  strange  news  for  you,"  he  said.  "You  have 
long  mourned  for  your  husband  and  your  son  ;  but,  though 
the  old  man  has  been  dead  for  years,  your  son  Earnest  is 
still  alive,  and  is  now  in  the  harbor  of  Cromarty.  He  is 
lieutenant  of  the  vessel  whose  guns  you  must  have  heard 
during  the  night." 

The  poor  woman  seemed  to  have  lost  all  power  of  reply. 

"  I  am  a  friend  of  Earnest's,"  continued  the  stranger, 
"and  have  come  to  prepare  you  for  meeting  with  him.  It 
is  now  five  years  since  his  father  and  he  were  blown  off  to 
sea  by  a  strong  gale  from  the  land.  They  drove  before  it 
for  four  days,  when  they  were  picked  up  by  an  armed  vessel 
then  cruising  in  the  North  Sea,  and  which  soon  after  sailed 
for  the  coast  of  Spanish  America.  The  poor  old  man  sank 
under  the  fatigues  he  had  undergone;  though  Earnest, 
better  able,  from  his  youth,  to  endure  hardship,  was  little 
affected  by  them.  He  accompanied  us  on  our  Spanish 
expedition  ;  indeed,  he  had  no  choice,  for  we  touched  at  no 
British  port  after  meeting  with  him;  and,  through  good 
fortune,  and  what  his  companions  call  merit,  he  has  risen 
to  be  the  second  man  aboard,  and  has  now  brought  home 
with  him  gold  enough  from  the  Spaniards  to  make  his  old 
mother  comfortable.  He  saw  your  light  yester-evening, 
and  steered  by  it  to  the  roadstead,  blessing  you  all  the  way. 

15* 


174  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

Tell  me,  for  he  anxiously  wished  me  to  inquire  of  you, 
whether  Helen  Henry  is  yet  unmarried." 

"It  is  Earnest!  it  is  Earnest  himself!"  exclaimed  the 
maiden,  as  she  started  from  the  widow's  bed.  In  a  moment 
after,  she  was  locked  in  his  arms.  But  why  dwell  on  a 
scene  which  I  feel  myself  unfitted  to  describe  ? 

It  was  ill  before  evening  with  old  Eachen  Macinla.  The 
fatigues  of  the  present  day,  and  the  grief  and  horror  of  the 
previous  night,  had  prostrated  his  energies,  bodily  and  men- 
tal ;  and  he  now  lay  tossing,  in  a  waste  apartment  of  the 
storehouse,  in  the  delirium  of  a  fever.  The  bodies  of  his  two 
sons  occupied  the  floor  below.  He  muttered  unceasingly, 
in  his  ravings,  of  William  and  Earnest  Beth.  They  were 
standing  beside  him,  he  said  ;  and  every  time  he  attempted 
to  pray  for  his  poor  boys  and  himself  the  stern  old  man  laid 
his  cold  swollen  hand  on  his  lips. 

"  Why  trouble  me  ?  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Why  stare  with 
your  white  dead  eyes  on  me  ?  Away,  old  man  ;  the  little 
black  shells  are  sticking  in  your  gray  hairs ;  away  to  your 
place  !  Was  it  I  who  raised  the  wind  on  the  sea?  —  was 
it  I  ?  —  was  it  I  ?  TJh,  u  !  —  no  —  no ;  you  were  asleep,  — 
you  were  fast  asleep, — and  could  not  see  me  cut  the  svring  ; 
and,  besides,  it  was  only  a  piece  of  rope.  Keep  away ;  touch 
me  not ;  I  am  a  free  man,  and  will  plead  for  my  life. 
Please  your  honoi",  I  did  not  murder  these  two  men  ;  I 
only  cut  the  rope  that  fastened  their  boat  to  the  land.  Ha ! 
ha!  ha!  he  has  ordered  them  away,  and  they  have  both 
left  me  unskaithed."  At  this  moment  Earnest  Beth  entered 
the  apartment,  and  approached  the  bed.  The  miserable 
old  man  raised  himself  on  his  elbow,  and,  regarding  him 
with  a  horrid  stare,  shrieked  out,  "  Here  is  Earnest  Beth, 
come  for  me  a  second  time ! "  and,  sinking  back  on  the 
pillow,  instantly  expired. 


V. 

THE    LYKEWAKE. 

CHAPTER  I. 


Why  start  at  Death?    Where  is  he? 
Death  arrived,  is  past;  not  come  or  gone,  he's  never  here. 

Young. 


I  know  no  place  where  one  may  be  brought  acquainted 
with  the  more  credulous  beliefs  of.  our  forefathers  at  a 
less  expense  of  inquiry  and  exertion  than  in  a  country 
lykewake.  The  house  of  mourning  is  naturally  a  place 
of  sombre  thoughts  and  ghostly  associations.  There  is 
something,  too,  in  the  very  presence  and  appearance  of 
death  that  leads  one  to  think  of  the  place  and  state  of  the 
dead.  Cowper  has  finely  said  that  the  man  and  the  beast 
who  stand  together  side  by  side  on  the  same  hill-top,  are, 
notwithstanding  their  proximity,  the  denizens  of  very  dif- 
ferent worlds.  And  I  have  felt  the  remark  to  apply  still 
more  strongly  when  sitting  beside  the  dead.  The  world 
of  intellect  and  feeling  in  which  we  ourselves  are,  and  of 
which  the  lower  propensities  of  our  nature  form  a  province, 
may  be  regarded  as  including,  in  part  at  least,  that  world 
of  passion  and  instinct  in  which  the  brute  lives  ;  and  we 
have  hut  to  analyze  and  abstract  a  little,  to  form  for  our- 
selves ideas  of  this  latter  world  from  even  our  own  experi- 


17 G  TALES   AND    SKETCHES 

ence.  But  by  what  process  of  thought  can  we  bring  ex- 
perience to  bear  on  the  world  of  the  dead  ?  It  lies  entirely 
beyond  us,  a  terra  incognita  of  cloud  and  darkness;  and 
yet  the  thing  at  our  side — the  thing  over  which  we  can 
stretch*  our  hand,  the  thing  dead  to  us  but  living  to  it 
—  has  entered  upon  it;  and,  however  uninformed  or  igno- 
rant before,  knows  more  of  its  dark,  and  to  us  inscrutable 
mysteries,  than  all  our  philosophers  and  all  our  divines.  Is 
it  wonder  that  we  would  fain  put  it  to  the  question  ;  that 
we  would  fain  catechise  it,  if  we  could,  regarding  its  newly- 
acquired  experience;  that  we  should  fill  up  the  gaps  in 
the  dialogue,  which  its  silence  leaves  to  us,  by  imparting 
to  one  another  the  little  we  know  regarding  its  state  and 
its  place  ;  or  that  we  should  send  our  thoughts  roaming  in 
long  excursions,  to  glean  from  the  experience  of  the  past 
all  that  it  tells  us  of  the  occasional  visits  of  the  dead,  and 
all  that  in  their  less  taciturn  and  more  social  moments 
they  have  communicated  to  the  living?  And  hence,  from 
feelings  so  natural  and  a  train  of  associations  so  obvi- 
ous, the  character  of  a  country  lykewake,  and  the  cast 
of  its  stories.  I  say  a  country  lykewake  ;  for  in  at  least 
all  our  larger  towns,  where  a  cold  and  barren  scepticism 
has  chilled  the  feelings  and  imaginations  of  the  people, 
without,  I  fear,  much  improving  their  judgments,  the  con- 
versation on  such  occasions  takes  a  lower  and  less  inter- 
esting range. 

I  once  spent  a  night  with  a  friend  from  the  south  —  a 
man  of  an  inquiring  and  highly  philosophic  cast  of  mind  — 
at  a  lykewake  in  the  upper  part  of  the  parish  of  Cromarty. 
I  had  excited  his  curiosity  by  an  incidental  remark  or  two 
of  the  kind  I  have  just  been  dropping ;  and,  on  his  express- 
ing a  wish  that  I  should  introduce  him,  by  way  of  illustra- 
tion, to  some  such  scene  as  I  had  been  describing,  we  had 


THE    LYKEWAKE.  177 

set  out  together  to  the  wake  of  an  elderly  female  who  had 
died  that  morning.  Her  cottage,  an  humble  erection  of 
stone  and  lime,  was  situated  beside  a  thick  fir-wood,  on  the 
edge  of  the  solitary  Mullbuoy,  one  of  the  dreariest  and  most 
extensive  commons  in  Scotland.  We  had  to  pass  in  our 
journey  over  several  miles  of  desolate  moor,  sprinkled  with 
cairns  and  tumuli  — the  memorials  of  some  forgotten  con- 
flict of  the  past ;  we  had  to  pass,  too,  through  a  thick, 
dark  wood,  with  here  and  there  an  intervening  marsh, 
whitened  over  with  moss  and  lichens,  and  which,  from  this 
circumstance,  are  known  to  the  people  of  the  country  as 
the  white  bogs.  Nor  was  the  more  distant  landscape  of  a 
less  gloomy  character.  On  the  one  hand  there  opened  an 
interminable  expanse  of  moor,  that  went  stretching  on- 
wards mile  beyond  mile  —  bleak,  dreaiy,  uninhabited  and 
uninhabitable  —  till  it  merged  into  the  far  horizon.  On  the 
other  there  rose  a  range  of  blue,  solitary  hills,  towering,  as 
they  receded,  into  loftier  peaks  and  bolder  acclivities,  till 
they  terminated  on  the  snow-streaked  Ben  Weavis.  The 
season,  too,  was  in  keeping  with  the  scene.  It  was  draw- 
ing towards  the  close  of  autumn  ;  and,  as  we  passed  through 
the  wood,  the  falling  leaves  were  eddying  round  us  with 
every  wind,  or  lay  in  rustling  heaps  at  our  feet. 

"I  do  not  wonder,"  said  my  companion,  "that  the  su- 
perstitions of  so  wild  a  district  as  this  should  bear  in  their 
character  some  marks  of  a  coiTesponding  wildness.  Night 
Ifj  in  a  populous  and  cultivated  country,  is  attended 
with  less  of  the  stern  and  the  solemn  than  mid-day  amid 
solitudes  like  these.  Is  the  custom  of  watching  beside  the 
dead  of  remote  antiquity  in  this  part  of  the  country  V  " 

"Far  beyond  the  reach  of  history  or  tradition,"  I  said. 
"But  it  has  gradually  been  changing  its  character,  as  the 
people  have  been  changing  theirs,   and    is   now  a  very  dif- 


178  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

ferent  thing  from  what  it  was  a  century  ago.  It  is  not  yet 
ninety  years  since  lykewakes  in  the  neighboring  Highlands 
used  to  be  celebrated  with  music  and  dancing ;  and  even 
here,  on  the  borders  of  the  low  country,  they  used  invaria- 
bly, like  the  funerals,  to  be  the  scenes  of  wild  games  and 
amusements  never  introduced  on  any  other  occasion.  You 
remember  how  Sir  Walter  describes  the  funeral  of  Athel- 
stane  ?  The  Saxon  ideas  of  condolence  were  the  most 
natural  imaginable.  If  grief  was  hungry,  they  supplied  it 
with  food  ;  if  thirsty,  they  gave  it  drink.  Our  simple  an- 
cestors here  seem  to  have  reasoned  by  a  similar  process. 
They  made  their  seasons  of  deepest  grief  their  times  of 
greatest  merriment ;  and  the  more  they  regretted  the  de- 
ceased, the  gayer  were  they  at  his  wake  and  his  funeral. 
A  friend  of  mine,  now  dead,  a  very  old  man,  has  told  me 
that  he  once  danced  at  a  lykewake  in  the  Highlands  of 
Sutherland.  It  was  that  of  an  active  and  a  very  robust 
man,  taken  away  from  his  wife  and  family  in  the  prime  of 
life  ;  and  the  poor  widow,  for  the  greater  part  of  the  even- 
ing, sat  disconsolate  beside  the  fire,  refusing  every  invita- 
tion to  join  the  dancers.  She  was  at  length,  however, 
brought  out  by  the  father  of  the  deceased.  'Little,  little 
did  he  think,'  he  said,  '  that  we  should  be  the  last  to  dance 
at  poor  Rory's  lykewake.' " 

We  reached  the  cottage*  and  went  in.  The  apartment 
in  which  the  dead  lay  was  occupied  by  two  men  and  three 
women.  Every  little  piece  of  furniture  it  contained  was 
hung  in  white,  and  the  floor  had  recently  been  swept  and 
sanded  ;  but  it  was  on  the  bed  where  the  body  lay,  and  on 
the  body  itself,  that  the  greatest  care  had  been  lavished. 
The  curtains  had  been  taken  down,  and  their  places  sup- 
plied by  linen  white  as  snow ;  and  on  the  sheet  that  served 
as  a  counterpane  the  body  was  laid  out  in  a  dress  of  white, 


THE    LYKEWAKE.  179 

fantastically  crossed  and  re-crossed  in  every  direction  by 
scalloped  fringes,  and  fretted  into  a  species  of  open  work, 
at  least  intended  to  represent  alternate  rows  of  roses  and 
tulips.  A  plate  containing  a  little  salt  was  placed  over  the 
breast  of  the  corpse.  As  we  entered  one  of  the  women 
rose,  and,  filling  two  glasses  with  spirits,  presented  them 
to  us  on  a  salver.  We  tasted  the  liquor,  and  sat  down  on 
chairs  placed  for  us  beside  the  fire.  The  conversation, 
which  had  been  interrupted  by  our  entrance,  began  to  flow 
apace ;  and  an  elderly  female,  who  had  lived  under  the  same 
roof  with  the  deceased,  began  to  relate,  in  answer  to  the 
queries  of  one  of  the  others,  some  of  the  particulars  of  her 
last  illness  and  death. 


CHAPTER    It. 
THE  STORY  OF  ELSPAT  M'CULLOCH. 

"Elspat  was  aye,"  she  said,  "  a  retired  body,  wi'  a  cast 
o'  decent  pride  aboot  her  ;  an',  though  bare  and  puirly  aff 
sometimes  in  her  auld  days,  she  had  never  been  chargeable 
to  onybody.  She  had  come  o'  decent,  'sponsible  people, 
though  they  were  a'  low  enough  the  day;  ay,  an'  they 
wi  re  God-fearing  people  too,  wha  had  gien  plenty  in  their 
time,  an'  had  aye  plenty  to  gie.  An'  though  they  had 
been  a' langsywe  laid  in  the  kirkyard, — a' except  hersel', 
pnir  body,  —  she  wonldna  disgrace  their  gude  name,  she 
said,  by  takin'  an  alms  frae  ony  ane.  Her  sma  means  fell 
oot  o'  her  hands  afore  her  last  illness.  Little  had  aye 
dune  her  turn,  but  the  little  failed  at  last ;  an'  sair  thocht 


180  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

did  it  gie  her  for  a  while  what  was  to  come  o'  her.  I 
could,  hear  her,  in  the  butt  end  o'  the  hoose,  a'e  mornin' 
mair  earnest  an'  langer  in  her  prayers  than  usual,  though 
she  never  neglected  them,  puir  body  ;  an'  a'  the  early  part 
o1  that  day  she  seemed  to  be  no  weel.  She  was  aye  up 
and  down ;  an'  I  could  ance  or  twice  hear  her  gaunting 
at  the  fireside  ;  but  when  I  went  ben  to  her,  an'  asked  what 
was  the  matter  wi'  her,  she  said  she  was  just  in  her  ordi- 
nal'. She  went  oot  for  a  wee  ;  an'  what  did  I  do,  but  gang 
to  her  amry,  for  I  jaloused  a'  w asn a  right  there ;  an' oh ! 
it  was  a  sair  sicht  to  see,  neebors  ;  for  there  was  neither  a 
bit  o'  bread  nor  a  grain  of  meal  within  its  four  corners,  — 
naething  but  the  sealed  up  graybeard  wi'  the  whiskey  that 
for  twenty  years  an'  mair  she  had  been  keepin'  for  her  lyke- 
wake ;  an',  ye  ken,  it  was  oot  o'  the  question  to  think  that 
she  would  meddle  wi'  it.  Weel  did  I  scold  her,  when  she 
cam'  in,  for  being  sae  close-minded.  I  asked  her  what 
harm  I  had  ever  done  to  her,  that  she  wad  rather  hae  died 
than  hae  trusted  her  wants  to  me  ?  But  though  she  said 
naething,  I  could  see  the  tears  in  her  e'e ;  an'  sae  I  stopped, 
an'  we  took  a  late  breakfast  thegither  at  my  fireside. 

"  She  tauld  me  that  moi-nin'  that  she  weel  kent  she 
wouldna  lang  be  a  trouble  to  onybody.  The  day  afore 
had  been  Sabbath;  an'  every  Sabbath  morning,  for  the 
last  ten  years,  her  worthy  neeboor  the  elder,  whom  they 
had  buried  only  four  years  afore,  used  to  call  on  her,  in  the 
passing  on  his  way  to  the  kirk.  '  Come  awa,  Elspat,'  he 
would  say  ;  an'  she  used  to  be  aye  decent  an'  ready,  for 
she  liked  his  conversation  ;  an'  they  aye  gaed  thegither  to 
the  kirk.  She  had  been  contracted,  when  a  young  lass,  to 
a  brither  o'  the  elder's,  a  stout,  handsome  lad;  but  he  had 
been  ca'ed  suddenly  awa  atween  the  contract  an'  the  mar- 
riage, an'  Elspat,  though  she  had  afterwards  mony  a  gude 


THE    LYKBWAKE.  181 

offer,  had  lived  single  for  his  sake.  Weel,  on  the  very 
mornin'  afore,  just  sax  days  after  the  elder's  death,  an5  four 
after  his  burial,  when  Elspat  was  sitting  dowie  aside  the 
fire,  thinkin'  o'  her  gude  auld  neebor,  the  cry  cam'  to  the 
door  just  as  it  used  to  do  ;  but,  though  the  voice  was  the 
same,  the  words  were  a  wee  different.  'Elspat,'  it  said, 
'niak'  ready,  an'  come  awa.'  She  rose  hastily  to  the  win- 
dow, an'  there,  sure  enough,  was  the  elder,  turning  the  cor- 
ner, in  his  Sunday's  bonnet  an'  his  Sunday's  coat.  An'  weel 
did  she  ken,  she  said,  the  meaning  o'  his  call,  an'  kindly 
did  she  tak'  it.  An'  if  it  was  but  God's  will  that  she  suld 
hae  enough  to  put  her  decently  under  the  ground,  with- 
out going  into  any  debt  to  any  one,  she  would  be  weel 
content.  She  had  already  the  linen  for  the  dead-dress,  she 
said  ;  for  she  had  spun  it  for  the  purpose  afore  her  con- 
tract wi'  William;  an'  she  had  the  Avhiskey,  too,  for  the 
wake  ;  but  she  had  naething  anent  the  coffin  an'  the 
bedral. 

"  Weel,  we  took  our  breakfast,  an'  I  did  my  best  to  com- 
fort the  puir  body  ;  but  she  looked  very  down-hearted  for 
a'  that.  About  the  middle  o'  the  day,  in  cam'  the  minis- 
ter's boy  wi'  a  letter.  It  was  directed  to  his  master,  he 
said;  but  it  was  a'  for  Elspat  ;  an'  there  was  a  five-pound 
note  in  it.  It  was  frae  a  man  who  had  left  the  country 
niony,  mony  a  year  afore,  a  good  deal  in  her  faither's  debt. 
You  would  hae  thought  the  puir  thing  wad  hae  grat  her 
•  in  out  when  she  saw  the  money;  but  never  was  money 
mair  thankfully  received,  orta'en  mair  directly  frae  heaven. 
It  sent  her  aboon  the  warld,  she  said;  an' coming  at  the 
time  it  did,  :in  estate  o' a  thousand  ;i  year  wadna  be  o' mair 
U-"  to  her.  Next  morning  she  didna  rise,  for  her  strength 
had  failed  her  at  once,  though  she  felt  nae  meikle  pain  ;  an' 
she  sent  me  to  get  the  note  changed,  an'  to  leave  twenty 
16 


182  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

shillings  o't  wi'  the  wright  for  a  decent  coffin  like  her  mith- 
er's,  an'  five  shillings  mair  wi'  the  bedral,  an'  to  tak'  in 
necessaries  for  a  sick-bed  wi'  some  o'  the  lave.  Weel,  I 
did  that ;  an'  there's  still  twa  pounds  o'  the  note  yonder  in 
the  little  cupboard. 

"  On  the  fifth  morning  after  she  had  been  taken  sae  ill,  I 
cam'  in  till  ask  after  her ;  for  my  neebor  here  had  relieved 
me  o'  that  night's  watchin',  an'  I  had  gotten  to  my  bed. 
The  moment  I  opened  the  door  I  saw  that  the  haill  room 
was  hung  in  white,  just  as  ye  see  it  now ;  an'  I'm  sure  it 
staid  that  way  a  minute  or  sae  ;  but  when  I  winked  it  went 
awa'.  I  kent  there  was  a  change  no  far  off;  and  when  I 
went  up  to  the  bed,  Elspat  didna  ken  me.  She  was  vvirkiu' 
wi'  her  ban'  at  the  blankets,  as  if  she  were  picking  off  the 
little  motes  ;  an'  I  could  hear  the  beginning  o'  the  dead- 
rattle  in  her  throat.  I  sat  at  her  bedside  for  a  while  wi'  my 
neebor  hei-e  ;  an'  when  she  spoke  to  us,  it  was  to  say  that 
the  bed  had  grown  hard  an'  uneasy,  an'  that  she  wished  to 
be  brought  out  to  tiie  chair.  Weel,  we  indulged  her,  though 
we  baith  kent  that  it  wasna  in  the  bed  the  uneasiness 
lay.  Her  mind,  puir  body,  was  carried  at  the  time.  She 
just  kent  that  there  was  to  be  a  death  an'  a  lykewake,  but 
no  that  the  death  and  the  lykewake  were  to  be  her  ain  ; 
an'  when  she  looked  at  the  bed,  she  bade  us  tak'  down  the 
black  curtains  an'  put  up  the  white  ;  an'  tauld  us  where 
the  white  were  to  be  found. 

"'But  where  is  the  corp  ? '  she  said;  'it's  no  there. 
Where  is  the  corp  ?  ' 

"  '  O,  Elspat !  it  will  be  there  vera  soon,'  said  my  neebor ; 
an'  that  satisfied  her. 

"  She  cam'  to  hersel'  an  hour  afore  she  departed.  God 
had  been  very  gude  to  her,  she  said,  a'  her  life  lang,  an'  he 
hadna  forsaken  her  at  the  last.     He  had  been  gude  to  her 


THE    LYKEWAKB.  183 

when  he  had  gien  her  friens,  an'  gude  to  her  when  he  took 
them  to  hiinsel' ;  an'  she  kent  she  was  now  going  to  baith 
him  an'  them.  There  wasna  such  a  difference,  she  said, 
atween  life  an'  death  as  folk  were  ready  to  think.  She 
was  sure  that,  though  William  had  been  ca'ed  awa  sud- 
denly, he  hadna  been  ca'ed  without  being  prepared ;  an' 
now  that  her  turn  had  come,  an'  that  she  was  goin'  to  meet 
wi'  him,  it  Avas  maybe  as  weel  that  he  had  left  her  early  ; 
for,  till  she  had  lost  him,  she  had  been  owre  licht  an' 
thochtless;  an'  had  it  been  her  lot  to  hae  lived  in  happi- 
ness wi'  him,  she  micht  hae  remained  light  an'  thoctitless 
still.  She  bade  us  baith  fareweel,  an'  thanked  an'  blessed 
us ;  an'  her  last  breath  went  awa'  in  a  prayer  no  half  an 
hour  after.     Puir,  decent  body !     But  she's  no  pair  now." 

"A  pretty  portrait,"  whispered  my  companion,  "of  one 
of  a  class  fast  wearing  away.  Nothing  more  interests  me 
in  the  story  than  the  woman's  undoubting  faith  in  the  su- 
pernatural. She  does  not  even  seem  to  know  that  what 
she  believes  so  firmly  herself  is  so  much  as  doubted  by 
others.  Try  whether  you  can't  bring  up,  by  some  means, 
a  few  other  stories  furnished  with  a  similar  machinery,  —  a 
story  of  the  second  sight,  for  instance." 

"The  only  way  of  accomplishing  that,"  I  replied,  "is  by 
contributing  a  story  of  the  kind  myself." 

"The  vision  of  the  room  hung  in  white,"  I  said,  "re- 
minds me  of  a  story  related,  about  a  hundred  and  fifty 
years  ago,  by  a  very  learned  and  very  ingenious  country- 
man of  ours,  George,  first  Earl  of  Cromarty.  His  lord- 
ship, a  steady  Royalist,  was  engaged,  shortly  before  the 
Restoration  (he  was  then,  by  the  way,  only  Sir  George 
Mackenzie),  in  raising  troops  for  the  king  on  his  lands  on 
the  western  coast  of  Ross-shire.  There  came  on  one  of 
those  days  of  rain  and  tempest  so  common  in  the  district, 


184  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

and  Sir  George,  with  some  of  his  friends,  were  storm-bound, 
in  a  solitary  cottage,  somewhere  on  the  shores  of  Loch- 
broom.  Towards  evening  one  of  the  party  went  out  to 
look  after  their  horses.  He  had  been  sitting  beside  Sir 
George,  and  the  chair  he  had  occupied  remained  empty. 
On  Sir  George's  servant,  an  elderly  Highlander,  coming 
in,  he  went  up  to  his  master,  apparently  much  appalled, 
and,  tapping  him  on  the  shoulder,  urged  him  to  rise. 
*  Rise ! '  he  said,  '  rise  !  There's  a  dead  man  sitting  on 
the  chair  beside  you.'  The  whole  party  immediately 
started  to  their  feet ;  but  they  saw  only  the  empty  chair. 
The  dead  man  was  visible  to  the  Highlander  alone.  His 
head  was  bound  up,  he  said,  and  his  face  streaked  with 
blood,  and  one  of  his  arms  hung  broken  by  his  side.  Next 
day,  as  a  party  of  horsemen  were  passing  along  the  steep 
side  of  a  hill  in  the  neighborhood,  one  of  the  horses  stum- 
bled and  threw  its  rider;  and  the  man,  grievously  injured 
by  the  fall,  was  carried  in  a  state  of  insensibility  to  the 
cottage.  His  head  was  deeply  gashed  and  one  of  his  arms 
was  broken,  —  though  he  ultimately  recovered,  —  and,  on 
being  brought  to  the  cottage,  he  was  placed,  in  a  death-like 
swoon,  in  the  identical  chair  which  the  Highlander  had 
seen  occupied  by  the  spectre.  Sir  George  relates  the  story, 
with  many  a  similar  story  besides,  in  a  letter  to  the  cele- 
brated Robert  Boyle." 

"  I  have  perused  it  with  much  interest,"  said  my  friend, 
"and  wonder  our  booksellers  should  have  suffered  it  to 
become  so  scarce.  Do  you  not  remember  the  somewhat 
similar  story  his  lordship  relates  of  the  Highlander  who 
saw  the  apparition  of  a  troop  of  horse  ride  over  the  brow 
of  a  hill  and  enter  a  field  of  oats,  which,  though  it  had 
been  sown  only  a  few  days  before,  the  horsemen  seemed 
to  cut  down  with  their  swords  ?     He  states  that,  a  few 


THE    LYKEWAKE.  185 

months  after,  a  troop  of  cavalry  actually  entered  the  same 
field,  and  carried  away  the  produce  for  fodder  to  their 
horses.  He  tells,  too,  if  I  remember  aright,  that  on  the 
same  expedition  to  which  your  story  belongs,  one  of  his 
Highlanders,  on  entering  a  cottage,  started  back  with  hor- 
ror. He  had  met  in  the  passage,  he  said,  a  dead  man  in 
his  shroud,  and  saw  people  gathering  for  a  funeral.  And, 
as  his  lordship  relates,  one  of  the  inmates  of  the  cottage, 
who  was  in  perfect  health  at  the  time  of  the  vision,  died 
suddenly  only  two  days  after." 


CHAPTER    III. 

THE  STORY  OF  DONALD  GAIR. 

"  The  second  sight,"  said  an  elderly  man  who  sat  be- 
side me,  and  whose  countenance  had  struck  me  as  highly 
expressive  of  serious  thought,  "  is  fast  wearing  out  of  this 
part  of  the  country.  Nor  should  we  much  regret  it  per- 
haps. It  seemed,  if  I  may  so  speak,  as  something  outside 
the  ordinary  dispositions  of  Providence,  and,  with  all  the 
horror  and  unhappiness  that  attended  it,  served  no  ap- 
parent good  end.  I  have  been  a  traveller  in  my  youth, 
masters.  About  thirty  years  ago,  I  served  for  some  time 
in  the  navy.  I  entered  on  the  first  breaking  out  of  the 
Revolutionary  war,  and  was  discharged  during  the  short 
peace  of  1801.  One  of  my  chief  companions  on  shipboard, 
for  the  first  few  years,  was  a  young  man,  a  native  of  Suth- 
erland, named  Donald  Gair.  Donald,  like  most  of  his 
16* 


186  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

countrymen,  was  a  staid,  decent  lad,  of  a  rather  melancholy 
cast ;  and  yet  there  were  occasions  when  he  could  be  gay 
enough  too.  We  sailed  together  in  the  Bedford,  under 
Sir  Thomas  Baird  :  and,  after  witnessing  the  mutiny  at 
the  Nore,  —  neither  of  us  did  much  more  than  witness  it, 
for  in  our  case  it  merely  transferred  the  command  of  the 
vessel  from  a  very  excellent  captain  to  a  set  of  low  Irish 
doctor's-list  men,  —  we  joined  Admiral  Duncan,  then  on 
the  Dutch  station.  We  were  barely  in  time  to  take  part 
in  the  great  action.  Donald  had  been  unusually  gay  all 
the  previous  evening.  We  knew  the  Dutch  had  come  out, 
and  that  there  was  to  be  an  engagement  on  the  morrow; 
and,  though  I  felt  no  fear,  the  thought  that  I  might  have  to 
stand  in  a  few  brief  hours  before  my  Maker  and  my  Judge 
had  the  effect  of  rendering  me  serious.  But  my  com- 
panion seemed  to  have  lost  all  command  of  himself.  He 
sung  and  leaped  and  shouted,  not  like  one  intoxicated,  — 
there  was  nothing  of  intoxication  about  him,  —  but  under 
the  influence  of  a  wild,  irrepressible  flow  of  spirits.  I  took 
him  seriously  to  task,  and  reminded  him  that  we  might 
both  at  that  moment  be  standing  on  the  verge  of  death 
and  judgment.  But  he  seemed  more  impressed  by  my 
remarking  that,  were  his  mother  to  see  him,  she  would  say 
he  was  fey. 

"  We  had  never  been  in  action  before  with  our  captain 
Sir  Thomas.  He  was  a  grave,  and,  I  believe,  God-fearing 
man,  and  much  a  favorite  with  at  least  all  the  better  sea- 
men. But  we  had  not  yet  made  up  our  minds  on  his 
character,  —  indeed,  no  sailor  ever  does  with  regard  to  his 
officers  till  he  knows  how  they  fight,  —  and  we  were  all 
curious  to  see  how  the  parson,  as  we  used  to  call  him, 
would  behave  himself  among  the  shot.  But  truly  we 
might  have  had  little  fear  for  him.      I  have  sailed  with 


THE    LYKEWAKE.  187 

Nelson,  and  not  Nelson  himself  ever  showed  more  courage 
or  conduct  than  Sir  Thomas  in  that  action.  He  made  us 
all  lie  down  beside  our  guns,  and  steered  us,  without  firing 
a  shot,  into  the  very  thickest  of  the  fight ;  and  when  we 
did  open,  masters,  every  broadside  told  with  fearful  effect. 
I  never  saw  a  man  issue  his  commands  with  more  coolness 
or  self-possession. 

"  There  are  none  of  our  continental  neighbors  who  make 
better  seamen,  or  who  fight  more  doggedly,  than  the 
Dutch.  We  were  in  a  blaze  of  flame  for  four  hours.  Our 
rigging  was  slashed  to  pieces,  and  two  of  our  ports  were 
actually  knocked  into  one.  There  was  one  fierce,  ill- 
natured  Dutchman,  in  particular,  —  a  fellow  as  black  as 
night,  without  so  much  as  a  speck  of  paint  or  gilding 
about  him,  save  that  he  had  a  red  lion  on  the  prow,  —  that 
fought  us  as  long  as  he  had  a  spar  standing;  and  when  he 
struck  at  last,  fully  one  half  the  crew  lay  either  dead  or 
wounded  on  the  decks,  and  all  his  scupper-holes  were 
running  blood  as  freely  as  ever  they  had  done  water  at  a 
deck-washing.  The  Bedford  suffered  nearly  as  severely. 
It  is  not  in  the  heat  of  action  that  we  can  reckon  on  the 
loss  we  sustain.  I  saw  my  comrades  falling  around  me, — 
falling  by  the  terrible  cannon-shot  as  they  came  crashing 
in  through  our  sides;  I  felt,  too,  that  our  gun  wrought 
more  heavily  as  our  numbers  were  thinning  around  it; 
and  at  times,  when  some  sweeping  chain-shot  or  fatal 
splinter  laid  open  before  me  those  horrible  mysteries  of 
the  inner  man  which  nature  so  sedulously  conceals,  I  was 
conscious  of  a  momentary  feeling  of  dread  and  honor. 
Bat  in  the  prevailing  mood,  an  unthinking  anger,  a  dire 
thirsting  after  revenge,  a  dogged,  unyielding  firmness, 
were  the  chief'  ingredients.  I  strained  every  muscle  and 
sinew;    and,  amid  the   smoke  and   the  thunder  and   the 


188  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

frightful  carnage,  fired  and  loaded,  and  fired  and  loaded, 
and,  with  every  discharge,  sent  out,  as  it  were,  the  bitter- 
ness of  my  whole  soul  against  the  enemy.  But  very  dif- 
ferent were  my  feelings  when  victory  declared  in  our  fa- 
vor, and,  exhausted  and  unstrung,  I  looked  abroad  among 
the  dead.  As  I  crossed  the  deck  my  feet  literally  splashed 
in  blood  ;  and  I  saw  the  mangled  fragments  of  human 
bodies  sticking  in  horrid  patches  to  the  sides  and  the 
beams  above.  There  was  a  fine  little  boy  aboard  with 
whom  I  was  an  especial  favorite.  He  had  been  engaged, 
before  the  action,  in  the  construction  of  a  toy  ship,  which 
he  intended  sending  to  his  mother ;  and  I  used  sometimes 
to  assist  him,  and  to  lend  him  a  few  simple  tools  ;  and, 
just  as  we  were  bearing  down  on  the  enemy,  he  had  come 
running  up  to  me  with  a  knife  which  he  had  borrowed 
from  me  a  short  time  before. 

"  '  Alick,  Alick,'  he  said, '  I  have  brought  you  your  knife  ; 
we  are  going  into  action,  you  know,  and  I  may  be  killed, 
and  then  you  would  lose  it.' 

"  Poor  little  fellow !  The  first  body  I  recognized  was 
his.  Both  his  arms  had  been  fearfully  shattered  by  a  can- 
non-shot, and  the  surgeon's  tourniquets,  which  had  been 
fastened  below  the  shoulders,  were  still  there  ;  but  he  had 
expired  ere  the  amputating  knife  had  been  applied.  As  I 
stood  beside  the  body,  little  in  love  with  war,  masters,  a 
comrade  came  up  to  me  to  say  that  my  friend  and  country- 
man, Donald  Gair,  lay  mortally  wounded  in  the  cockpit. 
I  went  instantly  down  to  him.  But  never  shall  I  forget, 
though  never  may  I  attempt  to  describe,  what  I  witnessed 
that  day  in  that  frightful  scene  of  death  and  suffering. 
Donald  lay  in  a  low  hammock,  raised  not  a  foot  over  the 
deck;  and  there  was  no  one  beside  him,  for  the  surgeons 
had  seen  at  a  glance  the  hopelessness  of  his  case,  and  were 


THE    LYKEWAKE.  189 

busied  about  others  of  whom  they  had  hope.  He  lay  on 
his  back,  breathing  very  hard,  but  perfectly  insensible  ;  and 
in  the  middle  of  his  forehead  there  was  a  round  little  hole 
without  so  much  as  a  speck  of  blood  about  it,  where  a  mus- 
ket-bullet had  passed  through  his  brain.  He  continued  to 
breathe  for  about  two  hours ;  and  when  he  expired  I 
wrapped  the  body  decently  up  in  a  hammock,  and  saw  it 
committed  to  the  deep.  The  years  passed;  and,  after 
looking  death  in  the  face  in  many  a  storm  and  many  a 
battle,  peace  was  proclaimed,  and  I  returned  to  my  friends 
and  my  country. 

"A  few  weeks  after  my  arrival,  an  elderly  Highland 
woman,  who  had  travelled  all  the  way  from  the  further  side 
of  Loch  Shin  to  see  me,  came  to  our  door.  She  was  the 
mother  of  Donald  Gair,  and  had  taken  her  melancholy 
journey  to  hear  from  me  all  she  might  regarding  the  last 
moments  and  death  of  her  son.  She  had  no  English,  and 
I  had  not  Gaelic  enough  to  converse  with  her;  but  my 
mother,  who  had  received  her  with  a  sympathy  all  the 
deeper  from  the  thought  that  her  own  son  might  have 
been  now  in  Donald's  place,  served  as  our  interpreter. 
She  was  strangely  inquisitive,  though  the  little  she  heard 
served  only  to  increase  her  grief;  and  you  may  believe  it 
was  not  much  I  could  find  heart  to  tell  her;  for  what  was 
there  in  the  circumstances  of  my  comrade's  death  to  afford 
pleasure  to  his  mother?  And  sol  waived  her  questions 
regarding  his  wound  and  his  burial  as  best  I  could. 

"  '  Ah,'  said  the  poor  woman  to  my  mother,  '  he  need  not 
be  afraid  to  tell  me  all.  I  know  too,  too  well  that  my 
Donald's  body  was  thrown  into  the  sea;  I  knew  of  it  long 
ere  it  happened  ;  and  I  have  long  tried  to  reconcile  my 
mind  to  it,  tried  when  lie  was  :i  boy  even  ;  and  so  you 
need  not  be  afraid  to  tell  me  now.' 


190  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

" '  And  how,'  asked  my  mother,  whose  curiosity  was 
excited,  'could  you  have  thought  of  it  eo  early  ?  ' 

'"I  lived,'  rejoined  the  woman,  'at  the  time  of  Donald's 
birth,  in  a  lonely  shieling-  among-  the  Sutherland  hills,  —  a 
full  day's  journey  from  the  nearest  church.  It  was  a  long, 
weary  road,  over  moors  and  mosses.  It  was  in  the  winter 
season,  too,  when  the  days  are  short ;  and  so,  in  bringing 
Donald  to  be  baptized,  we  had  to  remain  a  night  by  the 
way  in  the  house  of  a  friend.  We  there  found  an  old 
woman  of  so  peculiar  an  appearance  that,  when  she  asked 
me  for  the  child,  I  at  first  declined  giving  it,  fearing  she 
was  mad  and  might  do  it  harm.  The  people  of  the  house, 
however,  assured  me  she  was  incapable  of  hurting  it,  and 
so  I  placed  it  on  her  lap.  She  took  it  up  in  her  arms,  and 
began  to  sing  to  it ;  but  it  was  such  a  song  as  none  of  us 
had  ever  heard  before. 

" '  Poor  little  stranger  ! '  she  said, '  thou  hast  come  into 
the  world  in  an  evil  time.  The  mists  are  on  the  hills, 
gloomy  and  dark,  and  the  rain  lies  chill  on  the  heather; 
and  thou,  poor  little  thing,  hast  a  long  journey  through  the 
sharp,  biting  winds,  and  thou  art  helpless  and  cold.  Oh, 
but  thy  long  after-journey  is  as  dreary  and  dark  !  A  wan- 
derer shalt  thou  be,  over  the  land  and  the  ocean;  and  in 
the  ocean  shalt  thou  lie  at  last.  Poor  little  thing,  I  have 
waited  for  thee  long.  I  saw  thee  in  thy  wanderings,  and 
in  thy  shroud,  ere  thy  mother  brought  thee  to  the  door; 
and  the  sounds  of  the  sea  and  of  the  deadly  guns  are  still 
ringing  in  my  ears.  Go,  poor  little  thing,  to  thy  mother. 
Bitterly  shall  she  yet  weep  for  thee,  and  no  wonder ;  but 
no  one  shall  ever  weep  over  thy  grave,  or  mark  where  thou 
best  amid  the  deep  green,  with  the  shark  and  the  seal.' 

"'From  that  evening,'  continued  the  mother  of  my 
friend,  '  I  have  tried  to  reconcile  ray  mind  to  what  was  to 


THE    LYKEWAKE.  191 

happen  Donald.  But  oh,  the  fond,  foolish  heart!  I  loved 
him  more  than  any  of  his  brothers,  because  I  was  to  lose 
him  soon  ;  and  though  when  he  left  me  I  took  farewell  of 
him  for  ever,  —  for  I  knew  I  was  never,  never  to  see  him 
more,  —  I  felt,  till  the  news  reached  me  of  his  fall  in  battle, 
as  if  he  were  living  in  his  coffin.  But  oh  !  do  tell  me  all 
you  know  of  his  death.  I  am  old  and  weak,  but  I  have 
travelled  far,  far  to  see  you,  that  I  might  hear  all ;  and 
surely,  for  the  regard  you  bore  to  Donald,  you  will  not 
suffer  me  to  return  as  I  came.' 

"But  I  need  not  dwell  longer  on  the  story.  I  imparted 
to  the  poor  woman  all  the  circumstances  of  her  son's  death 
as  I  have  done  to  you  ;  and,  shocking  as  they  may  seem,  I 
found  that  she  felt  rather  relieved  than  otherwise." 

"  This  is  not  quite  the  country  of  the  second  sight,"  said 
my  friend  ;  "  it  is  too  much  on  the  borders  of  the  Low- 
lands. The  gift  seems  restricted  to  the  Highlands  alone, 
and  it  is  now  fast  wearing  out  even  there." 

"  And  weel  it  is,"  said  one  of  the  men,  "  that  it  should 
be  sae.  It  is  surely  a  miserable  thing  to  ken  o'  coming 
evil,  if  we  just  merely  ken  that  it  is  coming,  an'  that  come 
it  must,  do  what  we  may.  Ilac  ye  ever  heard  the  story  o' 
the  kelpie  that  wons  in  the  Conon?  " 

My  friend  replied  in  the  negative. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
THE  STORY  OF  THE  DOOMED  RIDER. 

"The  Conon,"  continued  the  man,  "  is  as  bonny  a  river 
as  we  hae  in  a'  the  north  country.     There's  mony  a  sweet 


192  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

sunny  spot  on  its  banks  ;  an'  raony  a  time  an'  aft  hae  1 
waded  through  its  shallows,  when  a  boy,  to  set  my  little 
scantling-line  for  the  trouts  an'  the  eels,  or  to  gather  the 
big  pearl-mussels  that  lie  sae  thick  in  the  fords.  But  its 
bonny  wooded  banks  are  places  for  enjoying  the  day  in, 
no  for  passing  the  nicht.  I  kenna  how  it  is :  it's  nane  o' 
your  wild  streams,  that  wander  desolate  through  desert 
country,  like  the  Avon,  or  that  come  rushing  down  in 
foam  and  thunder,  owre  broken  rocks,  like  the  Foyers,  or 
that  wallow  in  darkness,  deep,  deep  in  the  bowels  o'  the 
earth,  like  the  fearfu'  Auldgraunt ;  an'  yet  no  ane  o'  these 
rivers  has  mair  or  frightfuler  stories  connected  wi'  it  than 
the  Conon.  Ane  can  hardly  saunter  owre  half  a  mile  in  its 
course  frae  where  it  leaves  Contin  till  where  it  enters  the 
sea,  without  passing  owre  the  scene  o'  some  frightful  auld 
legend  o'  the  kelpie  or  the  water-wraith.  And  ane  o'  the 
maist  frightful-looking  o'  these  places  is  to  be  found  among 
the  woods  o'  Conon  House.  Ye  enter  a  swampy  meadow, 
that  waves  wi'  flags  an'  rushes  like  a  cornfield  in  harvest, 
an'  see  a  hillock  covered  wi'  willows  rising  like  an  island  in 
the  midst.  There  are  thick  mirk  woods  on  ilka  side  :  the 
river,  dark  an'  awesome,  an'  whirling  round  and  round  in 
mossy  eddies,  sweeps  away  behind  it ;  an'  there  is  an  auld 
burying-ground,  wi'  the  broken  ruins  o'  an  auld  Papist  kirk 
on  the  tap.  Ane  can  still  see  among  the  rougher  stanes 
the  rose-wrought  mullions  of  an  arched  window  an'  the 
trough  that  ance  held  the  holy  water.  About  twa  bunder 
years  ago,  —  a  wee  mair,  maybe,  or  a  wee  less,  for  ane 
canna  be  very  sure  o'  the  date  o'  thae  auld  stories,  —  the 
building  was  entire ;  an'  a  spot  near  it,  where  the  wood 
now  grows  thickest,  was  laid  out  in  a  cornfield.  The 
marks  o'  the  furrows  may  still  be  seen  amang  the  trees. 
A  party  o'  Highlanders  were  busily  engaged   a'e   day  ir 


THE    LYKEWAKE.  193 

harvest  in  cutting  down  the  corn  o'  that  field;  an'  just 
aboot  noon,  when  the  sun  shone  brightest,  an'  they  were 
busiest  in  the  work,  they  heard  a  voice  frae  the  river 
exclaim,  '  The  hour,  but  not  the  man,  has  come.'  Sure 
enough,  on  looking  round,  there  was  the  kelpie  standin'  in 
what  they  ca'  a  fause  ford,  just  foment  the  auld  kirk.  There 
is  a  deep,  black  pool  baith  aboon  an'  below,  but  i'  the  ford 
there's  a  bonny  ripple,  that  shows,  as  ane  might  think,  but 
little  depth  o'  water;  an,  just  i'  the  middle  o'  that,  in  a 
place  where  a  horse  might  swim,  stood  the  kelpie.  An'  it 
again  repeated  its  words,  '  The  hour,  but  not  the  man,  has 
come';  an'  then,  flashing  through  the  water  like  a  drake, 
it  disappeared  in  the  lower  pool.  When  the  folk  stood 
wondering  what  the  creature  might  mean,  they  saw  a  man 
on  horseback  come  spurring  down  the  hill  in  hot  haste, 
making  straight  for  the  fause  ford.  They  could  then  un- 
derstand her  words  at  ance  ;  an'  four  o'  the  stoutest  o'  them 
sprang  oot  frae  amang  the  corn,  to  warn  him  o'  his  danger 
an'  keep  him  back.  An'  sac  they  tauld  him  what  they  had 
seen  an  heard,  an'  urged  him  either  to  turn  back  an'  tak' 
anither  road  or  stay  for  an  hour  or  sae  where  he  was.  But 
lie  just  wadna  hear  them,  for  he  was  baith  unbelieving  an' 
in  haste,  an'  would  hue  ta'eu  the  ford  for  a'  they  could  say 
hadna  the  Highlanders,  determined  on  saving  him  whether 
he  would  or  no,  gathered  round  him  an'  pulled  him  frae 
his  horse,  an'  then,  to  make  sure  o'  him,  locked  him  up  in 
the  auld  kirk.  Weel,  when  the  hour  had  gone  by, —  the 
fatal  hour  o'  the  kelpie,  —  they  flung  open  the  door,  an' 
cried  to  him  that  he  might  noo  gang  on  his  journey.  Ah  ! 
but  there  was  nae  answer,  though  ;  an'  sae  they  cried  a 
6econd  time,  an'  there  was  nae  answer  still ;  an'  then  they 
went  in,  and  found  him  lying  stiff  an1  cauld  on  the  floor, 

wi'  his  face  buried  in  the  water  o'  the   very  stane  trough 
17 


194  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

that  we  may  still  see  amang  the  ruins.  His  hour  had 
come,  an'  he  had  fallen  in  a  fit,  as  'twould  seem,  head  fore- 
most amang  the  water  o'  the  trough,  where  he  had  been 
smothered  ;  an'  sae,  ye  see,  the  prophecy  o'  the  kelpie 
availed  nothing." 

"  The  very  story,"  exclaimed  my  friend,  "  to  which  Sir 
Walter  alludes,  in  one  of  the  notes  to  '  The  Heart  of  Mid- 
Lothian.'  The  kelpie,  you  may  remember,  furnishes  him 
with  a  motto  to  the  chapter  in  which  he  describes  the 
gathering  of  all  Edinburgh  to  witness  the  execution  of 
Porteous,  and  their  irrepressible  wrath  on  ascertaining  that 
there  was  to  be  no  execution,  — '  The  hour,  but  not  the 
man,  is  come.' " 

"I  remember  making  quite  the  same  discovery,"  I  re- 
plied, "  about  twelve  years  ago,  when  I  resided  for  several 
months  on  the  banks  of  the  Conon,  not  half  a  mile  from 
the  scene  of  the  story.  One  might  fill  a  little  book  with 
legends  of  the  Conon.  The  fords  of  the  river  are  danger- 
ous, especially  in  the  winter  season  ;  and  about  thirty  years 
ago,  before  the  erection  of  the  fine  stone  bridge  below  Co- 
non House,  scarcely  a  winter  passed  in  which  fatal  acci- 
dents did  not  occur  ;  and  these  were  almost  invariably 
traced  to  the  murderous  malice  of  the  water-wraith." 

"But  who  or  what  is  the  water-wraith?"  said  my  friend. 
"  We  heard  just  now  of  the  kelpie,  and  it  is  the  kelpie  that 
Sir  Walter  quotes." 

"Ah,"  I  replied,  "but  we  must  not  confound  the  kelpie 
and  the  water-wraith,  as  has  become  the  custom  in  these 
days  of  incredulity.  No  two  spirits,  though  they  were 
both  spirits  of  the  lake  and  the  river,  could  be  more  dif- 
ferent. The  kelpie  invariably  appeared  in  the  form  of  a 
young  horse  ;  the  water-wraith  in  that  of  a  very  tall  wo- 
man, dressed  in   green,  with  a  withered,  meagre   counte- 


THE    LYKEWAKE.  195 

nance  ever  distorted  by  a  malignant  scowl.  It  is  the  wa- 
ter-wraith, not  the  kelpie,  whom  Sir  Walter  should  have 
quoted  ;  and  yet  I  could  tell  you  curious  stories  of  the 
kelpie  too." 

"  We  must  have  them  all,"  said  my  friend,  "  ere  we  part. 
Meanwhile,  I  should  like  to  hear  some  of  your  stories  of  the 
Conon. 

"As  related  by  me,"  I  replied,  "you  will  find  them  rather 
meagre  in  their  details.     In  my  evening  walks  along  the 
river,  I  have  passed  the  ford  a  hundred  times  out  of  which, 
only  a  twelvemonth  before,  as  a  traveller  was  entering  it 
on  a  moonlight  night,  the  water- wraith  started  up,  not  four 
yards  in  front  of  him,  and  pointed  at  him  with  her  long 
skinny  fingers,  as  if  in  mockery.     I  have  leaned  against  the 
identical  tree  to  which  a  poor  Highlander  clung  when,  on 
fording  the  river  by  night,  he  was  seized  by  the  goblin. 
A  lad  who  accompanied  hiin,  and  who  had  succeeded  in 
gaining  the  bank,  strove  to  assist  him,  but  in  vain.    The 
poor  man  was  dragged  from  his  hold  into  the  current, 
where  he  perished.     The  spot  has  been  pointed  out  to  me, 
too,  in  the  opening  of  the  river,  where  one  of  our  Cromarty 
fishermen,  who  had  anchored  his  yawl  for  the  night,  was 
laid  hold  of  by  the  spectre  when  lying  asleep  on  the  beams, 
and  almost  dragged  over  the  gunwale  into  the  water.    Our 
seafaring  men  still  avoid  dropping  anchor,  if  they  possibly 
can,  after  the  sun  has  set,  in  what  they  term  the  fresh  ; 
that  is,  in  those  upper  parts  of  the  frith  where  the  waters 
of  the  river  predominate  over  those  of  the  sea. 

"The  scene  of  what  is  deemed  one  of  the  best  authenti- 
cated stories  of  the  water-wraith  lies  a  few  miles  higher  up 
the  river.  It  is  a  deep,  broad  ford,  through  which  horse- 
men coming  from  the  south  pass  to  B  rah  an  Castle.  A 
thick  wood  hangs  over  it  on  the  one  side  ;  on  the  other  it 


196  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

is  skirted  by  a  straggling  line  of  alders  and  a  bleak  moor. 
On  a  winter  night,  about  twenty-five  years  ago,  a  servant 
of  the  late  Lord  Seaforth  had  been  drinking  with  some 
companions  till  a  late  hour,  in  a  small  house  in  the  upper 
part  of  the  moor  ;  and  when  the  party  broke  up,  he  was 
accompanied  by  two  of  them  to  the  ford.  The  moon  was 
at  full,  and  the  river,  though  pretty  deep  in  flood,  seemed 
noway  formidable  to  the  servant.  He  was  a  young,  vigor- 
ous man,  and  mounted  on  a  powerful  horse  ;  and  he  had 
forded  it,  when  half  a  yard  higher  on  the  bank,  twenty 
times  before.  As  he  entered  the  ford,  a  thick  cloud  ob- 
scured the  moon  ;  but  his  companions  could  see  him  guid- 
ing the  animal.  lie  rode  in  a  slanting  direction  across  the 
stream  until  he  had  reached  nearly  the  middle,  when  a 
dark,  tall  figure  seemed  to  start  out  of  the  water  and  lay 
hold  of  him.  There  was  a  loud  cry  of  distress  and  terror, 
and  a  frightful  snorting  and  plunging  of  the  horse.  A 
moment  passed,  and  the  terrified  animal  was  seen  straining 
towards  the  opposite  bank,  and  the  ill-fated  rider  struggling 
in  the  stream.     In  a  moment  more  he  had  disappeared." 


CHAPTER    V. 

THE  STORY  OF  FAIRBURN'S  GHOST. 

"I  suld  weel  keen  the  Conon,"  said  one  of  the  women, 
who  had  not  yet  joined  in  the  conversation.  "  I  was  born 
no  a  stane's-cast  frac  the  side  o't.  My  mither  lived  in  her 
last  days  beside  the  auld  Tower  o'  Fairburn,  that  stands 
sae  like  a  ghaist  aboon  the  river,  an'  looks  down  on  a'  its 


THE    LYKEWAKE.  197 

turns  and  windings  frae  Contin  to  the  sea.  My  faither, 
too,  for  a  twelvemonth  or  sae  afore  his  death,  had  a  boat 
on  ane  o'  its  ferries,  for  the  crossing,  on  weekdays,  o'  pas- 
sengers, an'  o'  the  kirkgoing  folks  on  Sunday.  He  had  a 
little  bit  farm  beside  the  Conon,  an'  just  got  the  boat  by 
way  o'  eiking  out  his  means ;  for  we  had  aye  eneugh  to  do 
at  rent-time,  an'  had  maybe  less  than  plenty  through  a'  the 
rest  o'  the  year  besides.  Weel,  for  the  first  ten  months  or 
sae  the  boat  did  brawly.  The  Castle  o'  Brahan  is  no  half 
a  mile  frae  the  ferry,  an'  there  were  aye  a  hantle  o'  gran' 
folk  eomin'  and  gangin'  frae  the  Mackenzie,  an'  my  faither 
had  the  crossin'  o'  them  a'.  An'  besides,  at  Marti'mas,  the 
kirk-going  people  used  to  send  him  firlots  o'  bear  an'  pecks 
o'  oatmeal ;  an'  he  soon  began  to  find  that  the  bit  boat  was 
to  do  mair  towards  paying  the  rent  o'  the  farm  than  the 
farm  itsel'. 

"  The  Tower  o'  Fairburn  is  aboot  a  mile  and  a  half  aboon 
the  ferry.     It  stands  by  itsel'  on  the  tap  o'  a  heathery  hill, 
an'  there  are  twa  higher  hills   behind  it.     Beyond  there 
spreads  a  black,  dreary  desert,  where  ane  micht  wander  a 
lang  simmer's  day  withoot  seeing  the  face  o'  a  human  crea- 
ture, or  the  kindly  smoke  o'  a  lum.    I  dare  say  nane  o'  you 
hae  heard  hoo  the  Mackenzies  o1  Fairburn  an'  the  Chis- 
holrns  o'  Strathglass  parted  that  bit  o'  kintra  atween  them. 
Nane  o'  them  could  tell  where  the  lands  o'  the  ane  ended 
or  the  ither  began,  an'  they  were  that  way  for  generations, 
till  they  at  last  thocht  them  o'  a  plan  o'  division.     Each  o' 
them  gat  an  auld  wife  o'  seventy-five,  an'  they  set  them  aff 
a'e  Monday  at  the  same  time,  the  ane  frae  Erchless  Castle 
an'  the  ither  frae  the  Tower,  warning  them  aforehand  that 
the  braidness  o'  their  maisters'   lands  depended  on  their 
speed  ;  for  where  the  twa  would  meet  amang  the  hills,  there 
would  be  the  boundary. 
17* 


198  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

"You  may  be  sure  that  neither  o'  them  lingered  by 
the  way  that  morning.  They  kent  there  was  mony  an  e'e 
on  them,  an'  that  their  names  would  be  spoken  o'  in  the 
kintra-side  lang  after  themsels  were  dead  an'  gane ;  but  it 
sae  happened  that  Fairburn's  carline,  wlia  had  been  his 
nurse,  was  ane  o'  the  slampest  women  in  a'  the  north  of 
Scotland,  young  or  auld ;  an',  though  the  ither  did  weel, 
she  did  sae  meikle  better  that  she  had  got  owre  twenty 
lang  Highland  miles  or  the  ither  had  got  owre  fifteen. 
They  say  it  was  a  droll  sicht  to  see  them  at  the  meeting, 
—  they  were  baith  tired  almost  to  fainting ;  but  no  sooner 
did  they  come  in  sicht  o'  ane  anither,  at  the  distance  o'  a 
mile  or  sae,  than  they  began  to  run.  An'  they  ran,  an'  bet- 
ter ran,  till  they  met  at  a  little  burnie  ;  an'  there  wad  they 
hae  focht,  though  they  had  ne'er  seen  ane  anither  atween 
the  een  afore,  had  they  had  strength  eneugh  left  them  ; 
but  they  had  neither  pith  for  fechtin'  nor  breath  for  scoldin', 
an'  sae  they  just  sat  clown  an'  girned  at  ane  anither  across 
the  stripe.  The  Tower  o'  Fairburn  is  naething  noo  but  a 
dismal  ruin  o'  five  broken  stories,  the  ane  aboon  the  ither, 
an'  the  lands  hae  gane  oot  o'  the  auld  family ;  but  the  story 
o'  the  twa  auld  wives  is  a  weel-kent  story  still. 

"  The  laird  o'  Fairburn,  in  my  faither's  time,  was  as  fine 
an  open-hearted  gentleman  as  was  in  the  haill  country. 
He  was  just  particular  gude  to  the  puir;  but  the  family 
had  ever  been  that;  ay,  in  their  roughest  days,  even  whan 
the  Tower  had  neither  door  nor  window  in  the  lower  story, 
an'  only  a  wheen  shot-holes  in  the  story  aboon.  There 
wasna  a  puir  thing  in  the  kintra  but  had  reason  to  bless 
the  laird ;  an'  at  a'e  time  he  had  nae  fewer  than  twelve 
puir  orphans  living  about  his  house  at  ance.  Nor  was  he 
in  the  least  a  proud,  haughty  man.  He  wad  chat  for  hours 
thegither  wi'  ane  o'  his  puirest  tenants ;  an'  ilka  time  he 


THE    LYKEWAKE.  199 

crossed  the  ferry,  he  wad  tak'  my  faither  wi'  him,  for  com- 
pany just,  maybe  half  a  mile  on  his  way  out  or  hame. 
Weel,  it  was  a'e  nicht  about  the  end  o'  May,  —  a  bonny 
nicht,  an  hour  or  sae  after  sundown,  —  an'  my  faither  was 
mooring  his  boat,  afore  going  to  bed,  to  an  auld  oak  tree, 
whan  wha  does  he  see  but  the  laird  o'  Fairburn  coming 
down  the  bank?  Od,  thocht  he,  what  can  be  takin' the 
laird  frae  hame  sae  late  as  this  ?  I  thocht  he  had  been  no 
weel.  The  laird  cam'  steppin'  into  the  boat,  but,  instead 
o'  speakin'  frankly,  as  he  used  to  do,  he  just  waved  his 
hand,  as  the  proudest  gentleman  in  the  kintra  micht,  an' 
pointed  to  the  ither  side.  My  faither  rowed  him  across ; 
but,  oh !  the  boat  felt  unco  dead  an'  heavy,  an'  the  water 
stuck  around  the  oars  as  gin  it  had  been  tar;  an'  he  had 
just  eneugh  ado,  though  there  was  but  little  tide  in  the 
river,  to  mak'  oot  the  ither  side.  The  laird  stepped  oot, 
an'  then  stood,  as  he  used  to  do,  on  the  bank,  to  gie  my 
faither  time  to  fasten  his  boat,  an'  come  alang  wi'  him;  an' 
were  it  no  for  that,  the  puir  man  wadna  hae  thocht  o'  going 
wi'  him  that  nicht  ;  but  as  it  was,  he  just  moored  his  boat 
an'  went.  At  first  he  thocht  the  laird  must  hae  got  some 
bad  news  that  made  him  sae  dull,  an'  sae  he  spoke  on  to 
amuse  him,  aboot  the  weather  an'  the  markets  ;  but  he 
found  he  could  get  very  little  to  say,  an'  he  felt  as  arc  an' 
eerie  in  passin'  through  the  woods  as  gin  he  had  been 
pa8sin'  alane  through  a  kirkyard.  He  noticed,  too,  that 
there  was  a  fearsome  flichtering  an'  shriekin'  amang  the 
birds  that  lodged  in  the  tree-taps  aboon  them  ;  an'  that, 
as  they  passed  the  Talisoe,  there  was  a  collie  on  the  tap  o' 
a  hillock,  that  set  up  the  awfulest  yowling  he  had  ever 
heard.  He  stood  for  a  while  in  sheer  consternation,  but 
the  laird  beckoned  liim  on, wj ust  as  lie  had  doiM'  at  the  river- 
side, an'  sae  he  gaed   a  bittie  further  alang  the  wild,  rocky 


200  TALES    AN?    SKETCHES. 

glen  that  opens  into  the  deer-park.  But  oh,  the  fright 
that  was  araang  the  deer  !  They  had  been  lyin'  asleep  on 
the  knolls,  by  sixes  an'  sevens ;  an'  up  they  a'  started  at 
anee,  and  gaed  driving  aff  to  the  far  end  o'  the  park  as  if 
they  couldna  be  far  eneugh  frae  my  faither  an'  the  laird. 
Weel,  my  faither  stood  again,  an'  the  laird  beckoned  an' 
beckoned  as  afore  ;  but,  Gude  tak'  us  a'  in  keeping !  whan 
my  faither  looked  up  in  his  face,  he  saw  it  was  the  face  o' 
a  corp  :  it  was  white  an'  stiff,  an'  the  nose  was  thin  an' 
sharp,  an'  there  was  nae  winking  wi'  the  wide-open  een. 
Gude  preserve  us  !  my  faither  didna  ken  where  he  was 
stan'in,  —  didna  ken  what  he  war,  doin'  ;  an',  though  he 
kept  his  feet,  he  was  just  in  a  kind  o'  swarf  like.  The  laird 
spoke  twa  or  three  words  to  him,  —  something  about  the 
orphans,  he  thocht ;  but  he  was  in  such  a  state  that  he 
couldna  tell  what  ;  an'  when  he  cam'  to  himsel'  the  appa- 
rition Avas  awa'.  It  was  a  bonny  clear  nicht  when  they 
had  crossed  the  Conon ;  but  there  had  been  a  gatherin'  o' 
black  cluds  i'  the  lift  as  they  gaed,  an'  there  noo  cam'  on, 
in  the  clap  o'  a  han',  ane  o'  the  fearsomest  storms  o'  thun- 
der an'  lightning  that  was  ever  seen  in  the  country.  There 
was  a  thick  gurly  aik  smashed  to  shivers  owre  my  finther's 
head,  though  nane  o'  the  splintei's  steered  him;  an'  whan 
he  reached  the  river,  it  was  roaring  frae  bank  to  brae  like 
a  little  ocean  ;  for  a  water-spout  had  broken  amang  the 
hills,  an'  the  trees  it  had  torn  doun  wi'  it  were  darting 
alans:  the  current  like  arrows.  He  crossed  in  nae  little 
danger,  an'  took  to  his  bed  ;  an',  though  he  raise  an'  went 
aboot  his  wark  for  twa  or  three  months  after,  he  was  never, 
never  his  ain  man  again.  It  was  found  that  the  laird  had 
departed  no  five  minutes  afore  his  apparition  had  come  to 
the  ferry;  an'  the  very  last  words  he  had  spoken  —  but 
his  mind  was  carried  at  the  time  —  was  something  aboot 
my  faither." 


THE    LYKEWAKE.  201 


CHAPTER    VI. 

THE  STORY   OF  THE   LAND  FACTOR. 

"  There  maun  hae  been  something  that  weighed  on  his 
mind,"  remarked  one  of  the  women,  "  though  your  faither 
had  nae  power  to  get  it  frae  him.  I  mind  that,  when  I 
was  a  lassie,  there  happened  something  o'  the  same  kind. 
My  faither  had  been  a  tacksman  on  the  estate  o'  Blackball ; 
an'  as  the  land  was  sour  an'  w;it,  an'  the  seasons  for  a  while 
backward,  he  aye  contrived  —  for  he  was  a  hard-working, 
carefu.'  man  —  to  keep  us  a'  in  meat  and  claith,  and  to 
meet  wi1  the  factor.  But,  waes  me  !  he  was  sune  ta'en 
frac  us.  In  the  middle  o'  the  seed-time  there  cam'  a  bad 
fever  intil  the  country;  an'  the  very  first  that  died  o't  was 
yfly  puir  faither.  My  mither  did  her  best  to  keep  the  farm, 
an'  hand  us  a'  thegither.  She  got  a  carefu',  decent  lad  to 
manage  for  her,  an'  her  ain  e'e  was  on  everything;  an'  had 
it  no  been  for  the  cruel,  cruel  factor,  she  mieht  hae  dune 
gey  wee].  But  never  had  the  puir  tenant  a  waur  friend 
than  Ranald  Keilly.  He  was  a  toun  writer,  an'  had  made 
a  sort  o'  living,  afore  he  got  the  factorship,  just  as  toun 
writers  do  in  ordinal*'.  He  used  to  be  ffettin'  the  baud  <>' 
auld  wives'  posies  when  they  died;  an1  there  were  aye 
some  litigeous,  troublesome  folk  in  the  place,  too,  that  kept 
him  doing  a  little  in  the  way  o'  troublin'  their  neebors ;  an' 
sometimes,  when  some  daft,  gowked  man,  o'  mair  means 
than  Bense,  couldna  mismanage  his  ain  affairs  eneugb,  he 
got  Keilly  to  mismanage   them   for  him.     An'  sae  he  had 


202  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

picked  up  a  bare  livin'  in  this  way ;  but  the  factorship 
made  him  just  a  gentleman.  But,  oh,  an  ill  use  did  he 
mak'  o'  the  power  that  it  gied  him  owre  puir,  honest  folk  ! 
Ye  maun  ken  that,  gin  they  were  puir,  he  liked  them  a' the 
waur  for  being  honest ;  but,  I  dare  say,  that  was  natural 
eneugh  for  the  like  o'  him.  He  contrived  to  be  baith 
writer  an'  factor,  ye  see  ;  an'  it  wad  just  seem  that  his  chief 
aim  in  a'e  the  capacity  was  to  find  employment  for  himsel1 
in  the  ither.  If  a  puir  tenant  was  but  a  day  behind-hand 
wi'  his  rent,  he  had  creatures  o'  his  ain  that  used  to  Gransr 
half-an'-half  wi'  him  in  their  fees  •  °n'  them  he  wad  send 
afi°  to  poind  him;  an'  then,  if  the  expenses  o'  the  poinding 
werena  forthcoming,  as  weel  as  what  was  owing  to  the 
master,  he  wad  hae  a  roup  o'  the  stocking  twa  or  three 
days  after,  an'  anither  account,  as  a  man  o'  business,  for 
that.  An'  when  things  were  going  dog-cheap,  —  as  he 
took  care  that  they  should  sometimes  gang,  —  he  used  to 
buy  them  in  for  himsel,'  an'  part  wi'  them  again  for  maybe 
twice  the  money.  The  laird  was  a  quiet,  silly,  good-na- 
tured man  ;  an',  though  he  was  tauld  weel  o'  the  factor  a\, 
times,  ay,  an'  believed  it  too,  he  just  used  to  say:  'Oh, 
puir  Keilly,  what  wad  he  do  gin  I  were  to  part  wi'  him  ? 
He  wad  just  starve,'  An'  oh,  sirs,  his  pity  for  him  was 
bitter  cruelty  to  mony,  mony  a  puir  tenant,  an'  to  my 
mither  amang  the  lave. 

"  The  year  after  my  faither's  death  was  cauld  an'  wat,  an1 
oor  stuff  remained  sae  lang  green  that  we  just  thocht  we 
would na  get  it  cut  ava.  An'  when  we  did  get  it  cut,  the 
stacks,  for  the  first  whilie,  were  aye  heatin'  wi'  us ;  an'  when 
Marti'mas  came,  the  grain  was  still  saft  an'  milky,  an'  no  fit 
for  the  market.  The  term  cam'  round,  an'  there  was  little 
to  gie  the  factor  in  the  shape  o'  money,  though  there  was 
baith  corn  and  cattle;  an'  a'  that  we  wanted  was  just  a 


THE    LYKEWAKE.  203 

little  time.  Ah,  but  we  had  fa'en  into  the  hands  o'  ane 
that  never  kent  pity.  My  mither  hadna  the  money  gin,  as 
it  were,  the  day,  an'  on  the  morn  the  messengers  came  to 
poind.  The  roup  was  no  a  week  after ;  an'  oh,  it  was  a 
grievous  sicht  to  see  how  the  crop  an'  the  cattle  went  for 
just  naething.  The  farmers  were  a'  puirly  aff  with  the  late 
ha'rst,  an'  had  nae  money  to  spare ;  an'  sae  the  factor 
knocked  in  ilka  thing  to  himsel',  wi'  hardly  a  bid  against 
him.  He  was  a  rough-faced  little  man,  wi'  a  red,  hooked 
nose,  a  gude  deal  gi'en  to  whiskey,  an'  very  wild  an'  des- 
perate when  he  had  ta'en  a  glass  or  twa  aboon  ordinar' ; 
an'  on  the  day  o'the  rouj)  he  raged  like  a  perfect  madman. 
My  mither  spoke  to  him  again  an'  again,  wi'  the  tear  in  her 
e'e,  an'  implored  him,  for  the  sake  o'  the  orphan  an'  the 
widow,  no  to  hurry  hersel'  an'  her  bairns;  but  he  just 
cursed  an'  swore  a'  the  mair,  an'  knocked  down  the  stacks 
an'  the  kye  a'  the  faster;  an'  whan  she  spoke  to  him  o' 
the  Ane  aboon  a',  he  said  that  Providence  gied  lang  credit 
an'  reckoned  on  a  lang  day,  an'  that  he  wald  tak'  him  intil 
his  ain  hands.  Weel,  the  roup  cam'  to  an  end,  an'  the 
sum  o'  the  whole  didna  come  to  meikle  mair  nor  the  rent 
an' clear  the  factor's  lang,  lang  account  for  expenses;  an' 
at  nicht  my  mither  was  a  ruined  woman.  The  factor  staid 
up  late  an'  lang,  drinkin'  wi'  some  creatures  o'  his  ain  ;  an' 
the  last  wTords  he  said  on  going  to  his  bed  was,  that  he 
hadna  made  a  better  day's  wark  for  a  twelvemonth.  But, 
Gude  tak'  us  a'  in  keeping !  in  the  morning  he  was  a  corp, 
—  a  canld  lifeless  corp,  wi'  a  face  as  black  as  my  bonnet. 

"  Weel,  he  was  buried,  an'  there  was  a  grand  character 
o'  him  putten  in  the  newspapers,  an'  we  a'  thocht  we  were 
to  hear  nae  mair  about  him.  My  mither  got  a  wee  bittie 
o'  a  house  on  the  farm  o'  a  neebor,  and  there  we  lived 
dowie  eneugh  ;  but  she  was  aye  an  eident,  workin'  woman 


204  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

an'  she  now  span  late  an'  early  for  some  o'her  auld  friends, 
the  farmers'  wives ;  an'  her  sair-won  penny,  wi'  what  we 
got  frae  kindly  folk  wha  minded  us  in  better  times,  kept 
us  a'  alive.  Meanwhile,  strange  stories  o'  the  dead  factor 
began  to  gang  aboot  the  kintra.  First,  his  servants,  it 
was  said,  were  hearing  arc,  curious  noises  in  his  counting- 
office.  The  door  was  baith  locked  an'  sealed,  waiting  till 
his  friends  would  cast  up,  for  there  were  some  doots  aboot 
them  ;  but,  locked  an'  sealed  as  it  was,  they  could  hear  it 
opening  an'  shutting  every  nicht,  an'  hear  a  rustlin'  among 
the  papers,  as  gin  there  had  been  half  a  dozen  writers 
scribblin'  amang  them  at  ance.  An'  then,  Gude  preserve 
us  a' !  they  could  hear  Keilly  himsel',  as  if  he  were  dictat- 
ing to  his  clerk.  An',  last  o'  a',  they  could  see  him  in  the 
gloamin',  nicht  an  mornin',  ganging  aboot  his  house  wring- 
ing his  hands,  an'  aye,  aye  muttering  to  himsel'  aboot  roups 
and  poindings.  The  servant  girls  left  the  place  to  himsel'; 
an'  the  twa  lads  that  wrought  his  farm  an'  slept  in  a  hay- 
loft, weresae  disturbed  nicht  after  nicht,  that  they  had  just 
to  leave  it  to  himsel'  too. 

"My  mither  was  a'e  nicht  wi'  some  a'  her  spinnin'  at  a 
neeborin'  farmer's,  —  a  worthy,  God-fearing  man,  an'  an 
elder  o'  the  kirk.  It  was  in  the  simmer  time,  an'  the  nicht 
was  bricht  an'  bonny ;  but,  in  her  backcoming,  she  had  to 
pass  the  empty  house  o'  the  dead  factor,  an'  the  elder  said 
that  he  would  take  a  step  hame  wi'  her,  for  fear  she 
michtna  be  that  easy  in  her  mind.  An'  the  honest  man 
did  sac.  Naething  happened  them  in  the  passin',  except 
that  a  dun  cow,  ance  a  great  favorite  o'  my  mither's,  cam' 
lowing  up  to  them,  puir  beast,  as  gin  she  would  hae  better 
liked  to  be  gaun  hame  wi'  my  mother  than  stay  where  she 
was.  But  the  elder  didna  get  aff  sae  easy  in  the  back- 
coming.     He  was  passin'  beside  a  thick  hedge,  whan  what 


THE    LYKEWAKE.  205 

does  he  see,  but  a  man  inside  the  hedge,  takin'  step  for 
step  wi'  him  as  he  gaed  !  The  man  wore  a  dun  coat,  an 
had  a  hunting-whip  under  his  arm,  an'  walked,  as  the  elder 
thocht,  very  like  what  the  dead  factor  used  to  do  when  he 
had  gotten  a  glass  or  twa  aboon  ordinar.  Weel,  they  cam' 
to  a  slap  in  the  hedge,  an'  out  cam'  the  man  at  the  slap  ; 
an'  Gude  tak'  us  a'  in  keeping !  it  was  sure  enough  the 
dead  factor  himsel'.  There  were  his  hook  nose,  an'  his 
rough,  red  face,  —  though  it  was  maybe  bluer  noo  than 
red,  —  an'  there  were  the  boots  an'  the  dun  coat  he  had 
worn  at  my  mither's  roup,  an'  the  very  whip  he  had  lashed 
a  puir  gangrel  woman  wi'  no  a  week  before  his  death.  He 
was  mutterin'  something  to  himsel' ;  but  the  elder  could 
only  hear  a  wordie  noo  an'  then.  'Poind  an' roup, '  he 
would  say,  —  '  poind  an'  roup' ;  an'  then  there  would  come 
out  a  blatter  o'  curses.  —  'Hell,  hell!  an'  damn,  damn! 
The  elder  was  a  wee  fear-stricken  at  first,  —  as  wha  wadna  ? 
—  but  then  the  ill  words  an'  the  wray  they  were  said  made 
him  angry,  —  for  he  could  never  bear  ill  words  without 
checking  them,  — an' sae  he  turned  round  wi' a  stern  brow, 
an'  asked  the  appearance  what  it  wanted,  an'  why  it  should 
hae  come  to  disturb  the  peace  o'  the  kintra,  and  to  disturb 
him  ?  It  stood  still  at  that,  an'  said,  wi1  an  awsome  grane, 
that  it  couldna  be  quiet  in  the  grave  till  there  was  some 
justice  done  to  Widow  Stuart.  It  then  tauld  him  that 
there  were  forty  gowd  guineas  in  a  secret  drawer  in  his 
desk,  that  hadna  been  found,  an'  tauld  him  where  to  get 
them,  an'  that  he  wad  need  gang  wi'  the  laird  an'  the  min- 
ister to  the  drawer,  an'  gie  them  a'  to  the  widow.  It 
couldna  hae  rest  till  then,  it  said,  nor  wad  the  kintra  hae 
rest  either.  It  willed  that  the  lave  o'  the  gear  should  be 
gien  to  the  poor  o'  the  parish  ;  for  nane  o'  the  twa  folk 

that  laid  Claim  to  it  had  the  shadow  o'  a  right.     An'  wi' 
18 


206  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

that  the  appearance  left  him.  It  just  went  back  through 
the  slap  in  the  hedge;  an'  as  it  stepped  ovvre  the  ditch, 
vanished  in  a  puff  o'  smoke. 

"  Weel,  — but  to  cut  short  a  lang  story,  —  the  laird  and 
the  minister  were  at  first  gay  slow  o'  belief;  no  that  they 
misdoubted  the  elder,  but  they  thocht  that  he  must  hae 
been  deceived  by  a  sort  o'  wakin'  dream.  But  they  soon 
changed  their  minds,  for,  sure  enough,  they  found  the  forty 
guineas  in  a  secret  drawer.  An'  the  news  they  got  frae 
the  south  about  Keilly  was  just  as  the  appearance  had  said; 
no  ane  rnair  nor  anither  had  a  richt  to  his  gear,  for  he  had 
been  a  foundlin',  an'  had  nae  friends.  An'  sae  my  mither 
got  the  guineas,  an'  the  parish  got  the  rest,  an'  there  v;as 
nae  mair  heard  o'  the  apparition.  We  didna  get  back  oor 
auidfarm;  but  the  laird  gao  us  a  bittie  that  served  oor 
turn  as  weel ;  an'  or  my  mither  was  ca'ed  awa  frae  us,  wo 
were  a'  settled  in  the  warld,  au'  doin'  for  oorsels." 


CHAPTER    VII. 

THE  STORY  OF  THE  MEALMONGER. 

"  It  is  wonderful,"  remarked  the  decent-looking,  elderly 
man  who  had  contributed  the  story  of  Donald  Gair,  —  "  it 
is  wonderful  how  long  a  recollection  of  that  kind  may  live 
in  the  memory  without  one's  knowing  it  is  there.  There 
is  no  possibility  of  one  taking  an  inventory  of  one's  recol- 
lections. They  live  unnoted  and  asleep,  till  roused  by 
some  likeness  of  themselves,  and  then  up  they  start,  and 


THE    LYKEWAKE.  207 

answer  to  it,  as  '  face  answereth  to  face  in  a  glass.'  There 
comes  a  story  into  my  mind,  much  like  the  last,  that  has 
lain  there  all  unknown  to  me  for  the  last  thirty  years,  nor 
have  I  heard  any  one  mention  it  since  ;  and  yet  when  I 
was  a  boy  no  story  could  be  better  known.  You  have  all 
heard  of  the  dear  years  that  followed  the  harvest  of  '40, 
and  how  fearfully  they  bore  on  the  poor.  The  scarcity, 
doubtless,  came  mainly  from  the  hand  of  Providence,  and 
yet  man  had  his  share  in  it  too.  There  were  forestall- 
ers  of  the  market,  who  gathered  their  miserable  gains  by 
heightening  the  already  enormous  price  of  victuals,  thus 
adding  starvation  to  hunger;  and  among  the  best  known 
and  most  execrated  of  these  was  one  M'Kechan,  a  resi- 
denter  in  the  neighboring  parish.  Pie  was  a  hard-hearted 
foul-spoken  man  ;  and  often  what  he  said  exasperated  the 
people  as  much  against  him  as  what  he  did.  When,  on 
one  occasion,  he  bought  up  all  the  victuals  in  a  market, 
there  was  a  wringing'of  hands  among  the  women,  and  they 
cursed  him  to  his  face;  but  when  he  added  insult  to  injury, 
and  told  them,  in  his  pride,  that  he  had  not  left  them  an 
ounce  to  foul  their  teeth,  they  would  that  instant  have 
taken  his  life,  had  not  his  horse  carried  him  through.  He 
was  a  mean,  too,  as  well  as  a  hard-hearted  man,  and  used 
small  measures  and  light  weights.  But  he  made  money, 
and  deemed  himself  in  a  fair  way  of  gaining  a  eharact<  r 
on  the  strength  of  that  alone,  when  lie  was  seized  by  a 
fever,  and  died  after  a  few  days'  illness.  Solomon  tells  us, 
that  when  the  wicked  perish  there  is  shouting;  there  was 
little  grief  in  the  sheriffdom  when  M'Kechan  died  ;  but  his 
relatives  buried  him  decently;  and,  in  the  course  of  the 
next  fortnight,  the  meal  fell  twopence  the  peck.  You  know 
the  burying-ground  of  St.  Bennet's  :  the  chapel  has  long 
bince  been  ruinous,  and  a  row  of  wasted  elms,  with  white 


208  TALES    AND    SKETCHES 

skeleton-looking  tops,  run  around  the  enclosure  and  look 
over  the  fields  that  surround  it  on  every  side.  It  lies 
out  of  the  way  of  any  thoroughfare,  and  months  may  some- 
times pass,  when  burials  are  unfrequent,  in  which  no  one 
goes  near  it.  It  was  in  St.  Bennet's  that  M'Kechan  was 
buried ;  and  the  people  about  the  farm-house  that  lies 
nearest  it  were  surprised,  for  the  first  month  after  his 
death,  to  see  the  figure  of  a  man,  evening  and  morning, 
just  a  few  minutes  before  the  sun  had  risen  and  a  few 
after  it  had  set,  walking  round  the  yard  under  the  elms 
three  times,  and  always  disappearing  when  it  had  taken  the 
last  turn  beside  an  old  tomb  near  the  gate.  It  was  of  course 
always  clear  daylight  when  they  saw  the  figure ;  and  the 
month  passed  ere  they  could  bring  themselves  to  suppose 
that  it  was  other  than  a  thing  of  flesh  and  blood,  like  them- 
selves. The  strange  regularity  of  its  visits,  however,  at 
length  bred  suspicion  ;  and  the  farmer  himself,  a  plain,  de- 
cent man,  of  more  true  courage  than  men  of  twice  the  pre- 
tence, determined  one  evening  on  watching  it.  He  took 
his  place  outside  the  wall  a  little  before  sunset ;  and  no 
sooner  had  the  red  light  died  away  on  the  elm-tops,  than 
up  started  the  figure  from  among  the  ruins  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  burying-ground,  and  came  onward  in  its  round, 
muttering  incessantly  as  it  came,  '  Oh,  for  mercy  sake, 
for  mercy  sake,  a  handful  of  meal!  I  am  starving,  I  am 
starving :  a  handful  of  meal ! '  And  then,  changing  its  tone 
into  one  still  more  doleful,  'Oh,'  it  exclaimed,  'alas  for 
the  little  lippie  and  the  little  peck !  alas  for  the  little  lippie 
and  the  little  peck  ! '  As  it  passed,  the  farmer  started  up 
from  his  seat ;  and  there,  sure  enough,  was  M'Kechan,  the 
corn-factor,  in  his  ordinary  dress,  and,  except  that  he  was 
thinner  and  paler  than  usual,  like  a  man  suffering  from 
hunger,  presenting  nearly  his  ordinary  appearance.     The 


THE    LYKEWAKE.  209 

figure  passed  with  a  slow,  gliding  sort  of  motion  ;  and,  turn- 
ing the  further  corner  of  the  burying-ground,  came  onward 
in  its  second  round  ;  but  the  farmer,  though  he  had  felt 
rather  curious  than  afraid  as  it  went  by,  found  his  heart  fail 
him  as  it  approached  the  second  time,  and,  without  waiting 
its  coming  up,  set  off  homeward  through  the  corn.  The 
apparition  continued  to  take  its  rounds  evening  and  morn- 
ing for  about  two  months  after,  and  then  disappeared  for 
ever.  Mealmongers  had  to  forget  the  story,  and  to  grow  a 
little  less  afraid,  ere  they  could  cheat  with  their  accustomed 
coolness.  Believe  me,  such  beliefs,  whatever  may  be 
thought  of  them  in  the  present  day,  have  not  been  without 
their  use  in  the  past." 

As  the  old  man  concluded  his  story,  one  of  the  women 
rose  to  a  table  in  the  little  room  and  replenished  our  glasses. 
We  all  drank  in  silence. 

"It  is  within  an  hour  of  midnight,"  said  one  of  the  men, 
looking  at  his  watch.  "  We  had  better  recruit  the  fire,  and 
draw  in  our  chairs.  The  air  aye  feels  chill  at  a  lykevvake 
or  a  burial.  At  this  time  to-morrow  we  will  be  lifting  the 
corpse." 

There  was  no  reply.     We  all  drew  in  our  chairs  nearer 

the  fire,  and  for  several  minutes  there  was  a  pause  in  the 

conversation  ;  but  there  were  more  stories  to  be  told,  and 

before  the  morning  many  a  spirit  was  evoked  from   the 

grave,  the  vast  deep,  and  the  Highland  stream. 
18* 


VI. 
BILL   WHYTE. 

CHAPTER  I 

'Tis  the  Mind  that  makes  the  Body  quick; 

And  as  the  Sun  breaks  through  the  darkest  clouds, 

So  Honor  peereth  in  the  meanest  habit. 

Shakspeare. 

I  had  occasion,  about  three  years  ago,  to  visit  the  an- 
cient burgh  of  Fortrose.  It  was  early  in  winter ;  the  days 
were  brief,  though  pleasant,  and  the  nights  long  and  dark; 
and,  as  there  is  much  in  Fortrose  which  the  curious  trav- 
eller deems  interesting,  I  had  lingered  amid  its  burying- 
grounds  and  its  broken  and  mouldering  tenements  till  the 
twilight  had  fairly  set  in.  I  had  explored  the  dilapidated 
ruins  of  the  Chanonry  of  Ross ;  seen  the  tomb  of  old  Ab- 
bot Boniface  and  the  bell  blessed  by  the  Pope ;  run  over 
the  complicated  tracery  of  the  Runic  obelisk,  which  had 
been  dug  up,  about  sixteen  years  before,  from  under  the 
foundations  of  the  old  parish  church  ;  and  visited  the  low, 
long  house,  with  its  upper  windows  buried  in  the  thatch,  in 
which  the  far-famed  Sir  James  Mackintosh  had  received 
the  first  rudiments  of  his  education.  And  in  all  this  I  had 
been  accompanied  by  a  benevolent  old  man  of  the  place, 
a  mighty  chronicler  of  the  past,  who,  when  a  boy,  had  sat 


BILL    WHYTE.  211 

on  the  same  form  with  Sir  James,  and  who  on  this  occasion 
had  seemed  quite  as  delighted  in  meeting  with  a  patient 
and  interested  listener  as  I  had  been  in  finding  so  intelli- 
gent and  enthusiastic  a  storyist.  There  was  little  wonder, 
then,  that  twilight  should  have  overtaken  me  in  such  a 
place,  and  in  such  company. 

There  are  two  roads  which  run  between  Cromarty  and 
Fortrose,  —  the  one  the  king's  highway,  the  other  a  nar- 
row footpath  that  goes  winding  for  several  miles  under  the 
immense  wall  of  cliffs  which  overhangs  the  northern  shores 
of  the  Moray  Frith,  and  then  ascends  to  the  top  by  narrow 
and  doubtful  traverses  along  the  face  of  an  immense  prec- 
ipice termed  the  Scarf's  Crag.  The  latter  route  is  by  far 
the  more  direct  and  more  pleasant  of  the  two  to  the  day- 
traveller;  but  the  man  should  think  twice  who  proposes 
taking  it  by  night.  The  Scarf's  Crag  has  been  a  scene  of 
frightful  accidents  for  the  last  two  centuries.  It  is  not  vet 
more  than  twelve  years  since  a  young  and  very  active  man 
was  precipitated  from  one  of  its  higher  ledges  to  the  very 
beach,  —  a  sheer  descent  of  nearly  two  hundred  feet ;  and 
a  multitude  of  little  cairns  which  mottle  the  sandy  platform 
below  bear  witness  to  the  not  unfrequent  occurrence  of 
such  casualties  in  the  remote  past.  With  the  knowledge 
of  all  this,  however,  I  had  determined  on  taking  the  more 
pevilous  road.  It  is  fully  two  miles  shorter  than  the  other; 
ami,  besides,  in  a  life  of  undisturbed  security  a  slight  ad- 
mixture of  that  feeling  which  the  sense  of  danger  awakens 
is  a  luxury  which  I  have  always  deemed  worth  one's  while 
running  some  little  risk  to  procure.  The  night  fell  thick 
and  dark  wdiile  I  was  yet  hurrying  along  the  footway 
which  leads  under  the  cliffs;  and,  on  reaching  the  Scarf's 
Crag,  I  could  no  longer  distinguish  the  path,  nor  even 
catch  the  huge  outline  of  the  precipice  between  me  and 


212  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

the  sky.  I  knew  that  the  moon  rose  a  little  after  nine, 
but  it  was  still  early  in  the  evening ;  and,  deeming  it  too 
long  to  wait  its  rising,  I  set  myself  to  grope  for  the  path, 
when,  on  turning  an  abrupt  angle,  I  was  dazzled  by  a  sud- 
den blaze  of  light  from  an  opening  in  the  rock.  A  large 
fire  of  furze  and  brushwood  blazed  merrily  from  the  inte- 
rior of  a  low-browed  but  spacious  cave,  bronzing  with  dusky 
yellow  the  huge  volume  of  smoke  which  went  rolling  out- 
wards along  the  roof,  and  falling  red  and  strong  on  the 
face  and  hands  of  a  thick-set,  determined-looking  man, 
well-nigh  in  his  sixtieth  year,  who  was  seated  before  it  on 
a  block  of  stone.  I  knew  him  at  once,  as  an  intelligent, 
and,  in  the  main,  rather  respectable  gipsy,  whom  I  had 
once  met  with  about  ten  years  before,  and  who  had  seen 
some  service  as  a  soldier,  it  was  said,  in  the  first  British 
expedition  to  Egypt.  The  sight  of  his  fire  determined  me 
at  once.  I  resolved  on  passing  the  evening  with  him  till 
the  rising  of  the  moon  ;  and,  after  a  brief  explanation,  and 
a  blunt,  though  by  no  means  unkind  invitation  to  a  place 
beside  his  fire,  I  took  my  seat,  fronting  him,  on  a  block  of 
granite  which  had  been  rolled  from  the  neighboring  beach. 
In  less  than  half  an  hour  we  were  on  as  easy  terms  as  if 
we  had  been  comrades  for  years ;  and,  after  beating  over 
fifty  different  topics,  he  told  me  the  story  of  his  life,  and 
found  an  attentive  and  interested  auditor. 

Who  of  all  my  readers  is  unacquainted  with  Goldsmith's 
admirable  stories  of  the  sailor  with  the  wooden  leg  and 
the  poor  half-starved  rnerry-andrew  ?  Independently  of 
the  exquisite  humor  of  the  writer,  they  are  suited  to  in- 
terest us  from  the  sort  of  cross  vistas  which  they  open  into 
scenes  of  life  where  every  thought  and  aim  and  incident 
has  at  once  all  the  freshness  of  novelty  and  all  the  truth 
of  nature  to  recommend  it.     And  I  felt  nearly  the  same 


BILL   WHTTE.  21o 

kind  of  interest  in  listening  to  the  narrative  of  the  gipsy. 
It  was  much  longer  than  either  of  Goldsmith's  stories,  and 
perhaps  less  characteristic  ;  but  it  presented  a  rather  curi- 
ous picture  of  a  superior  nature  rising  to  its  proper  level 
through  circumstances  the  most  adverse ;  and,  in  the  main, 
pleased  me  so  well,  that  I  think  I  cannot  do  better  than 
present  it  to  the  reader. 

"  I  was  born,  master,"  said  the  gipsy,  "in  this  very  cave, 
some  sixty  years  ago,  and  so  am  a  Scotchman  like  yourself. 
My  mother,  however,  belonged  to  the  Debatable-land  ; 
my  father  was  an  Englishman  ;  and  of  my  five  sisters,  one 
first  saw  the  light  in  Jersey,  another  in  Guernsey,  a  third 
in  Wales,  a  fourth  in  Ireland,  and  the  fifth  in  the  Isle  of 
Man.  But  this  is  a  trifle,  master,  to  what  occurs  in  some 
families.  It  can't  be  much  less  than  fifty  years  since  my 
mother  left  us,  one  bright  sunny  clay,  on  the  English  side 
of  Kelso,  and  staid  away  about  a  week.  We  thought  we 
had  lost  her  altogether;  but  back  she  came  at  last;  and 
when  she  did  come,  she  brought  with  her  a  small  sprig  of 
a  lad  of  about  three  summers  or  thereby.  Father  grum- 
bled a  little.  We  had  got  small  fry  enough  already,  he  said, 
and  bare  enough  and  hungry  enough  they  were  at  times ; 
but  mother  showed  him  a  pouch  of  yellow  pieces,  and 
there  was  no  more  grumbling.  And  so  we  called  the  little 
fellow  Bill  Wlivte,  as  if  he  had  been  one  of  ourselves;  and 
he  grew  up  among  us,  as  pretty  a  fellow  as  e'er  the  sun 
looked  upon.  I  was  a  few  years  his  senior  ;  but  he  soon 
contrived  to  get  half  a  foot  ahead  of  me ;  and  when  we 
quan-elled,  as  boys  will  at  times,  master,  I  always  came  off 
second  best.  I  never  knew  a  fellow  of  a  higher  spirit,  fie 
would  rather  starve  than  beg,  a  hundred  times  over,  and 
never  stole  in  his  life  ;  but  then  for  gin-setting,  and  deer- 
stalking, and  black-fishing,  not  a  poacher  in  the  country 


214  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

got  beyond  him  ;  and  when  there  was  a  smuggler  in  the 
Solway,  who  more  active  than  Bill  ?  He  was  barely  nine- 
teen, poor  fellow,  when  he  made  the  country  too  hot  to 
hold  him.  I  remember  the  night  as  well  as  if  it  were  yes- 
terday. The  Cat-maran  lugger  was  in  the  Frith,  d'ye  see, 
a  little  below  Caerlaverock  ;  and  father  and  Bill,  and  some 
half-dozen  more  of  our  men,  were  busy  in  bumping  the 
kegs  ashore,  and  hiding  them  in  the  sand.  It  was  a  thick, 
smuggy  night :  we  could  hardly  see  fifty  yards  around  us  ; 
and  on  our  last  trip,  master,  when  we  were  down  in  the 
water  to  the  gunwale,  who  should  come  upon  us,  in  the 
turning  of  a  handspike,  but  the  revenue  lads  from  Kirk- 
cudbright !  They  hailed  us  to  strike,  in  the  devil's  name. 
Bill  swore  he  wouldn't.  Flash  went  a  musket,  and  the 
ball  whistled  through  his  bonnet.  Well,  he  called  on  them 
to  row  up,  and  up  they  came  ;  but  no  sooner  were  they 
within  half-oar's  length,  than,  taking  up  a  keg,  and  raising 
it  just  as  he  usea  to  do  the  putting-stone,  he  made  it  spin 
through  their  bottom  as  if  the  planks  were  of  window 
glass,  and  down  went  their  cutter  in  half  a  jiffy.  They 
had  wet  powder  that  night,  and  fired  no  more  bullets. 
Well,  when  they  were  gathering  themselves  up  as  they 
best  could,  —  and,  goodness  be  praised !  there  were  no 
drownings  amongst  them, —  we  bumped  our  kegs  ashore, 
hiding  them  with  the  others,  and  then  fled  up  the  country. 
We  knew  there  would  be  news  of  our  night's  work  ;  and 
so  there  was ;  for  before  next  evening  there  were  adver- 
tisements on  every  post  for  the  apprehension  of  Bill,  with 
an  offered  reward  of  twenty  pounds. 

"Bill  was  a  bit  of  a  scholar,  —  so  am  I,  for  that  matter, 
—  and  the  papers  stared  him  on  every  side. 

"  '  Jack,'  he  said  to  me,  —  '  Jack  Whyte,  this  will  never 
do  :  the  law's  too  strong  for  us  now  ;  and  if  I  don't  make 


BILL   WHYTE.  215 

away  with  myself,  they'll  either  have  me  tucked  up  or 
seut  over  the  seas  to  slave  for  life.  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll 
do.  I  stand  six  feet  in  my  stocking-soles,  and  good  men 
were  never  more  wanted  than  at  present.  I'll  cross  the 
country  this  very  night,  and  away  to  Edinburgh,  where 
there  are  troops  raising  for  foreign  service.  Better  a 
musket  than  the  gallows!' 

" '  Well,  Bill,'  I  said, '  I  don't  care  though  I  go  with  you. 
I'm  a  good  enough  man  for  my  inches,  though  I  ain't  so 
tall  as  you,  and  I'm  woundily  tired  of  spoon-making.' 

"And  so  off  we  set  across  the  country  that  very  minute, 
travelling  by  night  only,  and  passing  our  days  in  any  hid- 
ing hole  we  could  find,  till  we  reached  Edinburgh,  and 
there  we  took  the  bounty.  Bill  made  as  pretty  a  soldier 
as  one  could  have  seen  in  a  regiment ;  and,  men  being 
scarce,  I  wasn't  rejected  neither;  and  after  just  three 
weeks'  drilling,  —  and  plaguey  weeks  they  were,  —  we 
were  shipped  off.  fully  finished,  for  the  south.  Bonaparte 
had  gone  to  Egypt,  and  we  were  sent  after  him  to  ferret 
him  out ;  though  we  weren't  told  so  at  the  time.  And  it 
was  our  good  luck,  master,  to  be  put  aboard  of  the  same 
transport. 

"  Nothing  like  seeing  the  world  for  making  a  man  smart. 
We  had  all  sorts  of  people  in  our  regiment,  from  the 
broken-down  gentleman  to  the  broken-down  lamplighter ; 
and  Bill  was  catching  from  the  best  of  them  all  he  could, 
lie  knew  he  wasn't  a  gipsy,  and  had  always  an  eye  to  get- 
ting on  in  the  world;  and  as  the  voyage  was  a  woundy 
long  one,  and  we  hail  the  regimental  schoolmaster  aboard, 
Bill  was  a  smarter  fellow  at  the  end  of  it  than  he  had  been 
at  the  beginning.  Well,  we  reached  Aboukir  Bay  at  last. 
You  have  never  been  in  Egypt,  master;  but  just  look 
across  the  Moray  Frith  here,  on  a  sunshiny  day,  and  you 


216  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

will  see  a  picture  of  it,  if  you  but  strike  off  the  blue  High- 
bind  hills,  that  rise  behind,  from  the  long  range  of  low 
sandy  hillocks  that  stretches  away  along  the  coast  between 
Findhorn  and  Nairn.  I  don't  think  it  was  worth  all  the 
trouble  it  cost  us  ;  but  the  king  surely  knew  best.  Bill 
and  I  were  in  the  first  detachment,  and  we  had  to  clear 
the  way  for  the  rest.  The  French  were  drawn  up  on  the 
shore,  as  thick  as  flies  on  a  dead  snake,  and  the  bullets 
rattled  round  us  like  a  shower  of  May  hail.  It  was  a  glo- 
rious sight,  master,  for  a  bold  heart.  The  entire  line  of 
sandy  coast  seemed  one  unbroken  streak  of  fire  and  smoke  ; 
and  we  could  see  the  old  tower  of  Aboukir  rising  like  a 
fiery  dragon  at  the  one  end,  and  the  straggling  village  of 
Rosetta,  half-cloud  half-flame,  stretching  away  on  the  other. 
There  was  a  line  of  launches  and  gunboats  behind  us,  that 
kept  up  an  incessant  fire  on  the  enemy,  and  shot  and  shell 
went  booming  over  our  heads.  We  rowed  shorewards, 
under  a  canopy  of  smoke  and  flame  :  the  water  was  broken 
by  ten  thousand  oars;  and  never,  master,  have  you  heard 
such  cheering ;  it  drowned  the  roar  of  the  very  cannon. 
Bill  and  I  pulled  at  the  same  oar ;  but  he  bade  me  cheer, 
and  leave  the  pulling  to  him. 

" '  Cheer,  Jack,'  he  said,  '  cheer !  I  am  strong  enough  to 
pull  ten  oars,  and  your  cheering  does  my  heart  good.' 

"  I  could  see,  in  the  smoke  and  the  confusion,  that  there 
was  a  boat  stove  by  a  shell  just  beside  us,  and  the  man 
immediately  behind  me  was  shot  through  the  head.  But 
we  just  cheered  and  pulled  all  the  harder;  and  the  mo- 
ment our  keel  touched  the  shore  we  leaped  out  into  the 
water,  middle  deep,  and,  after  one  well-directed  volley, 
charged  up  the  beach  with  our  bayonets  fixed.  I  missed 
footing  in  the  hurry,  just  as  we  closed,  and  a  big-whiskered 
fellow  in  blue  would  have  pinned  me  to  the  sand  had  not 


BILL    WHYTE. 


217 


Bill  struck  him  through  the  wind-pipe,  and  down  he  fell 
above  me ;  but  when  I  sti*ove  to  rise  from  under  him,  he 
grappled  with  me  in  his  death  agony,  and  the  blood  and 
breath  came  rushing  through  his  wound  in  my  face.  Ere 
I  had  thrown  him  off  my  comrades  had  broken  the  enemy 
and  wrere  charging  up  the  side  of  a  sand-hill,  where  there 
were  two  field-pieces  stationed  that  had  sadly  annoyed  us 
in  the  landing.  There  came  a  shower  of  grape-shot  whist- 
ling round  me,  that  carried  away  my  canteen  and  turned 
me  half  round ;  and  when  I  looked  up,  I  saw,  through  the 
smoke,  that  half  my  comrades  were  swept  away  by  the 
discharge,  and  that  the  survivors  were  fighting  desperately 
over  the  two  guns,  hand-to-hand  with  the  enemy.  Ere  I 
got  up  to  them,  however,  —  and,  trust  me,  master,  I  didn't 
linger,  —  the  guns  were  our  own.  Bill  stood  beside  one 
of  them,  all  grim  and  bloody,  with  his  bayonet  dripping 
like  an  eaves-spout  in  a  shower.  He  had  struck  down  five 
of  the  French,  besides  the  one  he  had  levelled  over  me ; 
and  now,  all  of  his  own  accord,  —  for  our  sergeant  had  been 
killed, — he  had  shotted  the  two  pieces  and  turned  them 
on  the  enemy.  They  all  scampered  down  the  hill,  master, 
on  the  first  discharge,  —  all  save  one  brave,  obstinate  fel- 
low, who  stood  firing  upon  us,  not  fifty  yards  away,  half 
under  cover  of  a  sand-bank.  I  saw  him  load  thrice  ere  I 
could  hit  him,  and  one  of  his  balls  whisked  through  my 
hat;  but  I  catched  him  at  last,  and  down  he  fell.  My 
bullet  went  right  through  his  forehead.  We  had  no  more 
fighting  that  day.  The  French  fell  back  on  Alexandria, 
and  our  troops  advanced  about  three  miles  into  the  coun- 
try, over  a  dreary  waste  of  sand,  and  then  lay  for  the  night 
on  their  arm-. 

"In  the  morning,  when  we  were  engaged  in  cooking  our 
breakfasts,  master,  making  what  lires  we  could   with  the 
19 


218  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

withered  leaves  of  the  date-tree,  our  colonel  and  two 
officers  came  up  to  us.  The  colonel  was  an  Englishman,  as 
brave  a  gentleman  as  ever  lived,  aye,  and  as  kind  an  officer 
too.  He  was  a  fine-looking  old  man,  as  tall  as  Bill,  and  as 
well  built  too ;  but  his  health  was  much  broken.  It  was 
said  he  had  entered  the  army  out  of  break-heart  on  losing 
his  wife.  Well,  he  came  up  to  us,  I  say,  and  shook  Bill  by 
the  hand  as  cordially  as  if  he  had  been  a  colonel  like  him- 
self. He  was  a  brave,  good  soldier,  he  said,  and,  to  show 
him  how  much  he  valued  good  men,  he  had  come  to  make 
him  a  sergeant,  in  room  of  the  one  he  had  lost.  He  had 
heard  he  was  a  scholar,  he  said,  and  he  trusted  his  conduct 
would  not  disgrace  the  halberd.  Bill,  you  may  be  sure, 
thanked  the  colonel,  and  thanked  him,  master,  very  like  a 
gentleman ;  and  that  very  day  he  swaggered  scarlet  and  a 
sword,  as  pretty  a  sergeant  as  the  army  could  boast  of; 
aye,  and  for  that  matter,  though  his  experience  was  little, 
as  fit  for  his  place. 

"For  the  first  fortnight  we  didn't  eat  the  king's  biscuit 
for  nothing.  We  had  terrible  hard  fighting  on  the  13th  ; 
and,  had  not  our  ammunition  failed  us,  we  would  have 
beaten  the  enemy  all  to  rags ;  but  for  the  last  two  hours 
we  hadn't  a  shot,  and  stood  just  like  so  many  targets  set 
up  to  be  fired  at.  I  was  never  more  fixed  in  my  life  than 
when  I  saw  my  comrades  falling  around  me,  and  all  for 
nothing.  Not  only  could  I  see  them  falling,  but,  in  the 
absence  of  every  other  noise,  —  for  we  had  ceased  to  cheer, 
and  stood  as  silent  and  as  hard  as  foxes,  —  I  could  hear 
the  dull5  hollow  sound  of  the  shot  as  it  pierced  them 
through.  Sometimes  the  bullets  struck  the  sand,  and  then 
rose  and  went  rolling  over  the  level,  raising  clouds  of  dust 
at  every  skip.  At  times  we  could  see  them  coming  through 
the  air  like  little  clouds,  and  singing  all  the  way  as  they 


BILL   WHYTE.  219 

came.  But  it  was  the  frightful  smoking  shot  that  annoyed 
us  most  —  these  horrid  shells.  Sometimes  they  broke  over 
our  heads  in  the  air  as  if  a  cannon  charged  with  grape  had 
been  fired  at  us  from  out  the  clouds.  At  times  they  sank 
into  the  sand  at  our  feet,  and  then  burst  up  like  so  many 
Yesuviuses,  giving  at  once  death  and  burial  to  hundreds. 
But  we  stood  our  ground,  and  the  day  passed.  I  remem- 
ber we  got,  towards  evening,  into  a  snug  hollow  between 
two  sand-hills,  where  the  shot  skimmed  over  us,  not  two 
feet  above  our  heads;  but  two  feet  is  just  as  good  as 
twenty,  master;  and  I  began  to  think,  for  the  first  time, 
that  I  hadn't  got  a  smoke  all  day.  I  snapped  my  musket 
and  lighted  my  pipe ;  and  Bill,  whom  I  hadn't  seen  since 
the  day  after  the  landing,  came  up  to  share  with  me. 

"'Bad  day's  work,  Jack,'  he  said;  'but  we  have  at  least 
taught  the  enemy  what  British  soldiers  can  endure,  and 
ere  long  we  shall  teach  them  something  more.  But  here 
comes  a  shell!  Nay,  do  not  move,' he  said;  'it  will  fall 
just  ten  yards  short.'  And  down  it  came,  roaring  like  a 
tempest,  sure  enough, about  ten  yards  away,  and  sank  into 
the  sand.  '  There  now, fairly  lodged,' said  Bill ;  'lie  down, 
lads,  lie  down.'  We  threw  ourselves  flat  on  our  faces  ; 
the  earth  heaved  under  us  like  a  wave  of  the  sea ;  and  in 
a  moment  Bill  and  I  were  covered  with  half  a  ton  of  sand. 
But  the  pieces  whizzed  over  us;  and,  save  that  the  man 
who  was  across  me  had  an  ammunition-bag  carried  away, 
not  one  of  us  more  than  heard  them.  On  getting  our- 
selves disinterred,  and  our  pipes  re-lighted,  Bill,  with  a 
twitch  on  the  elbow  —  so —  said  he  wished  to  speak  with 
imc  a  little  apart;  and  we  went  out  together  into  a  hol- 
low in  front. 

"'You  will  think  it  strange,  Jack,'  he  said,  'that  all  this 
day,  when  the  enemy's  bullets  were  hopping  around  us  like 


220  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

hail,  there  was  but  just  one  idea  that  filled  my  mind,  and  I 
could  find  room  for  no  other.  Ever  since  I  saw  Colonel 
Westhope,  it  has  been  forced  upon  me,  through  a  newly- 
awakened,  dream-like  recollection,  that  he  is  the  gentleman 
with  whom  I  lived  ere  I  was  taken  away  by  your  people  ; 
for  taken  away  I  must  have  been.  Your  mother  used  to 
tell  me  that  my  father  was  a  Cumberland  gipsy,  who  met 
with  some  bad  accident  from  the  law  ;  but  I  am  now  con- 
vinced she  must  have  deceived  me,  and  that  my  father  was 
no  such  sort  of  man.  You  will  think  it  strange,  but  when 
jmtting  on  my  coat  this  morning,  my  eye  caught  the  silver 
bar  on  the  sleeve,  and  there  leaped  into  my  mind  a  vivid 
recollection  of  having  worn  a  scarlet  dress  before,  —  scar- 
let bound  with  silver,  —  and  that  it  was  in  the  house  of  a 
gentleman  and  lady  whom  I  had  just  learned  to  call  papa 
and  mamma.  And  every  time  I  see  the  colonel,  as  I  say, 
I  am  reminded  of  the  gentleman.  Now,  for  heaven's  sake, 
Jack,  tell  me  all  you  know  about  me.  You  are  a  few  years 
my  senior,  and  must  remember  better  than  I  can  -myself 
under  what  circumstances  I  joined  your  tribe.' 

•' '  Why,  Bill,'  I  said,  '  I  know  little  of  the  matter,  and 
'twere  no  great  Avonder  though  these  bullets  should  con- 
fuse me  somewhat  in  recalling  what  I  do  know.  Most 
certainly  we  never  thought  you  a  gipsy  like  ourselves ;  but 
then  I  am  sure  mother  never  stole  you ;  she  had  family 
enough  of  her  own ;  and,  besides,  she  brought  with  her 
for  your  board,  she  said,  a  purse  with  more  gold  in  it  than 
I  have  seen  at  one  time  before  or  since.  I  remember  it 
kept  us  all  comfortably  in  the  creature  for  a  whole  twelve- 
month;  and  it  wasn't  a  trifle,  Bill,  that  could  do  that. 
You  were  at  first  like  to  die  among  us.  You  hadn't  been 
accustomed  to  sleeping  out,  or  to  food  such  as  ours.  And, 
dear  me  !  how  the  rags  you  were  dressed  in  used  to  annoy 


BILL   WHYTE.  221 

you ;  but  you  soon  got  over  all,  Bill,  and  became  the  har- 
diest little  fellow  among  us.  I  once  heard  my  mother  say 
that  you  were  a  love-begot,  and  that  your  father,  who  was 
an  English  gentleman,  had  to  part  from  both  you  and  your 
mother  on  taking  a  wife.  And  no  more  can  I  tell  you, 
Bill,  for  the  life  of  me.' 

"  We  slept  that  night  on  the  sand,  master,  and  found  in 
the  morning  that  the  enemy  had  fallen  back  some  miles 
nearer  Alexandria.  Next  evening  there  was  a  party  of  us 
despatched  on  some  secret  service  across  the  desert.  Bill 
was  with  us ;  but  the  officer  under  whose  special  charge 
we  were  placed  was  a  Captain  Turpic,  a  nephew  of  Colonel 
"Westhope,  and  his  heir.  But  he  heired  few  of  his  good 
qualities.  He  was  the  son  of  a  pettifogging  lawyer,  ami 
was  as  heartily  hated  by  the  soldiers  as  the  colonel  was  be- 
loved. Towards  sunset  the  party  reached  a  hollow  valley 
in  the  waste,  and  there  rested,  preparatory,  as  we  all  in- 
tended, for  passing  the  night.  Some  of  us  were  engaged 
in  erecting  temporary  huts  of  branches,  some  in  providing 
the  necessary  materials ;  and  we  had  just  formed  a  snug 
little  camp,  and  were  preparing  to  light  our  fires  for  supper, 
when  we  heard  a  shot  not  two  furlongs  away.  Bill,  who 
was  by  far  the  most  active  among  us,  sprang  up  one  of  the 
tallest  date  trees  to  reconnoitre.  But  he  soon  came  down 
again. 

'"  We  have  lost  our  pains  this  time,'  he  said;  'there  is 
a  party  of  French,  of  fully  five  times  our  number,  not  half 
a  mile  away.'  The  captain,  on  the  news,  wasn't  slow,  as 
you  may  think,  in  ordering  us  off;  and,  hastily  gathering 
up  our  blankets  and  the  contents  of  our  knapsacks,  we 
struck  across  the  sand  just  as  the  sun  was  setting.  There 
is  scarce  any  twilighl  in  Egypt,  master;  it,  is  pitch  dark 
twenty  minutes  alter  sunset.  The  first  part  of  the  evening, 
19* 


222  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

too,  is  infinitely  disagreeable.  The  days  are  burning  hot, 
and  not  a  cloud  can  be  seen  in  the  sky;  but  no  sooner  has 
the  sun  gone  down  than  there  comes  on  a  thick  white  fog- 
that  covers  the  whole  country,  so  that  one  can't  see  fifty 
yards  around  •>  and  so  icy  cold  is  it,  that  it  strikes  a  chill 
to  the  very  heart.  It  is  with  these  fogs  that  the  dews 
descend  ;  and  deadly  things  they  are.  Well,  the  mist  and 
the  darkness  came  upon  us  at  once  ;  we  lost  all  reckoning, 
and,  after  floundering  on  for  an  hour  or  so  among  the  sand- 
hills, our  captain  called  a  halt,  and  bade  us  burrow  as  we 
best  might  among  the  hollows.  Hungry  as  we  were  we 
were  fain  to  leave  our  supper  to  begin  the  morning  with, 
and  huddled  all  together  into  what  seemed  a  deep,  dry 
ditch.  We  were  at  first  surprised,  master,  to  find  an  im- 
mense heap  of  stone  under  us,  —  we  couldn't  have  lain 
harder  had  we  lain  on  a  Scotch  cairn,  —  and  that,  d'ye  see, 
is  unusual  in  Egypt,  where  all  the  sand  has  been  blown  by 
the  hot  winds  from  the  desert,  hundreds  of  miles  away, 
and  where,  in  the  course  of  a  few  days'  journey,  one 
mayn't  see  a  pebble  larger  than  a  pigeon's  egg.  There 
were  hard,  round,  bullet-like  masses  under  us,  and  others 
of  a  more  oblong  shape,  like  pieces  of  wood  that  had  been 
cut  for  fuel ;  and,  tired  as  we  were,  their  sharp  points,  pro- 
truding through  the  sand,  kept  most  of  us  from  sleep.  But 
that  was  little,  master,  to  what  we  felt  afterwards.  As  we 
began  to  take  heat  together,  there  broke  out  among  us  a 
most  disagreeable  stench,  —  bad  at  first,  but  unlike  any- 
thing I  had  felt  before,  but  at  last  altogether  overpowering. 
Some  of  us  became  dead  sick,  and  some,  to  show  how 
much  bolder  they  were  than  the  rest,  began  to  sing.  One 
half  the  party  stole  away,  one  by  one,  and  lay  down  out- 
side. For  my  own  part,  master,  I  thought  it  was  the 
plague  that  was  breaking  out  upon  us  from  below,  and  lay 


BILL   WHYTE.  223 

still  in  despair  of  escaping  it.  I  was  wretchedly  tired  too ; 
and,  despite  of  my  fears  and  the  stench,  I  fell  asleep,  and 
slept  till  daylight.  But  never  before,  master,  did  I  see 
such  a  sight  as  when  I  awoke.  We  had  been  sleeping  on 
the  carcasses  of  ten  thousand  Turks,  whom  Bonaparte  had 
massacred  about  a  twelvemonth  before.  There  were  eye- 
less skulls,  grinning  at  us  by  hundreds  from  the  side  of  the 
ditch,  and  black,  withered  hands  and  feet  sticking  out, 
with  the  white  bones  glittering  between  the  shrunken 
sinews.  The  very  sand,  for  roods  around,  had  a  brown  fer- 
ruginous tinge,  and  seemed  baked  into  a  half-solid  mass 
resembling  clay.  It  was  no  place  to  loiter  in,  and  you 
may  trust  me,  master,  we  breakfasted  elsewhere.  Bill  kept 
close  to  our  captain  all  that  morning.  He  didn't  much  like 
him,  even  so  early  in  their  acquaintance  as  this,  —  no  one 
did,  in  fact,  —  but  he  was  anxious  to  learn  from  him  all  he 
could  regarding  the  colonel.  He  told  him,  too,  something 
about  his  own  early  recollections ;  but  he  would  better 
have  kept  them  to  himself.  From  that  hour,  master,  Cap- 
tain Turjiic  never  gave  him  a  pleasant  look,  and  sought 
every  means  to  ruin  him. 

"  We  joined  the  army  again  on  the  evening  of  the  20th 
March.  You  know,  master,  what  awaited  us  next  morning. 
I  had  been  marching,  on  the  day  of  our  arrival,  for  twelve 
hours  under  a  very  hot  sun,  and  was  fatigued  enough  to 
sleep  soundly.  But  the  dead  might  have  awakened  next 
morning.  The  enemy  broke  in  upon  us  about  three  o'clock. 
It  was  pitch  dark.  I  had  been  dreaming,  at  the  moment, 
that  I  was  busily  engaged  in  the  landing,  fighting  in  the 
front  rank  beside  Bill ;  and  I  awoke  to  hear  the  enemy 
outside  the  tent  struggling  in  fierce  conflict  with  such  of 
my  comrades  as,  half-naked  and  half-armed,  had  been 
roused  by  the  first  alarm,  and  had  rushed  out  to  oppose 


224  TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

them.  You  will  not  think  that  I  was  long  in  joining  them, 
master,  when  I  tell  you  that  Bill  himself  was  hardly  two 
steps  ahead  of  me.  Colonel  Westhope  was  everywhere  at 
once  that  morning,  bringing  his  men,  in  the  darkness  and 
the  confusion,  into  something  like  order,  —  threatening, 
encouraging,  applauding,  issuing  orders,  all  in  a  breath. 
Just  as  we  got  out,  the  French  broke  through  beside  our 
tent,  and  we  saw  him  struck  down  in  the  throng.  Bill 
gave  a  tremendous  cry  of  'Our  colonel!  our  colonel ! '  and 
struck  his  pike  up  to  the  cross  into  the  breast  of  the  fel- 
low who  had  given  the  blow.  And  hardly  had  that  one 
fallen  than  he  sent  it  crashing  through  the  face  of  the  next 
foremost,  till  it  lay  buried  in  the  brain.  The  enemy  gave 
back  for  a  moment ;  and  as  he  was  striking  down  a  third 
the  colonel  got  up,  badly  wounded  in  the  shoulder ;  but 
he  kept  the  field  all  day.  He  knew  Bill  the  moment  he 
rose,  and  leant  on  him  till  he  had  somewhat  recovered. 
'  I  shall  not  forget,  Bill,'  he  said,  '  that  you  have  saved 
your  colonel's  life.'  We  had  a  fierce  struggle,  master,  ere 
we  beat  out  the  French  ;  but,  broken  and  half-naked  as 
we  were,  we  did  beat  them  out,  and  the  battle  became 
general. 

"  At  first  the  flare  of  the  artillery,  as  the  batteries  blazed 
out  in  the  darkness,  dazzled  and  blinded  me;  but  I  loaded 
and  fired  incessantly  ;  and  the  thicker  the  bullets  went 
whistling  past  me,  the  faster  I  loaded  and  fired.  A  spent 
shot,  that  had  struck  through  a  sand-bank,  came  rolling  on 
like  a  bowl,  and,  leaping  up  from  a  hillock  in  front,  struck 
me  on  the  breast.  It  was  such  a  blow,  master,  as  a  man 
might  have  given  with  his  fist;  but  it  knocked  me  down, 
and  ere  I  got  up,  the  company  was  a  few  paces  in  advance. 
The  bonnet  of  the  soldier  who  had  taken  my  place  came 
rolling  to  my  feet  ere  I  could  join  them.     But  alas  !  it  was 


BILL    WHYTE.  225 

full  of  blood  and  brains;  and  I  found  that  the  spent  shot 
had  come  just  in  time  to  save  my  life.  Meanwhile,  the 
battle  raged  with  redoubled  fury  on  the  left,  and  we  in  the 
centre  had  a  short  respite.  And  some  of  us  needed  it. 
For  my  own  part,  I  had  fired  about  a  hundred  rounds;  and 
my  right  shoulder  was  as  blue  as  your  waistcoat. 

"  You  will  wonder,  master,  how  I  should  notice  such  a 
thing  in  the  heat  of  an  engagement ;  but  I  remember 
nothing  better  than  that  there  was  a  flock  of  little  birds 
shrieking  and  fluttering  over  our  heads  for  the  greater 
part  of  the  morning.  The  poor  little  things  seemed  as  if 
robbed  of  their  very  instinct  by  the  incessant  discharges 
on  every  side  of  them;  and,  instead  of  pursuing  a  direct 
course,  which  would  soon  have  carried  them  clear  of  us, 
they  kept  fluttering  in  helpless  terror  in  one  little  spot. 
About  mid-day,  an  aide-de-camp  went  riding  by  us  to  the 
right. 

"  '  How  goes  it  ?  how  goes  it  ?  '  asked  one  of  our  officers. 

" '  It  is  just  who  will,'  replied  the  aide-de-camp,  and 
passed  by  like  lightning.     Another  followed  hard  alter. 

'• '  How  goes  it  now  V '  Inquired  the  officer. 

"  '  Never  better,  boy  ! '  said  the  second  rider.  'The  forty- 
second  have  cut  Bonaparte's  invincibles  to  pieces,  and  all 
the  rest  of  the  enemy  are  falling  back ! ' 

"  We  came  more  into  action  a  little  after.  The  enemy 
opened  a  heavy  fire  upon  us,  and  seemed  advancing  to  the 
charge.  I  had  felt  so  fatigued,  master,  during  the  previous 
pause,  that  I  could  scarcely  raise  my  hand  to  my  head  ; 
but,  now  that  we  were  to  be  engaged  again,  all  my  fatigue 
left  me,  and  I  found  myself  grown  fresh  as  ever.  There 
were  two  field  pieces  to  our  left  that  had  done  noble  exe- 
cution during  the  day;  and  Captain  Turpic's  company,  in- 
cluding Bill  and  me,  were  ordered  to  stand  by  them  in  the 


22d  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

expected  charge.  They  were  wrought  mostly  by  seamen 
from  the  vessels,  —  brave,  tight  fellows  who,  like  Nelson, 
never  saw  fear  ,  but  they  had  been  so  busy  that  they  had 
shot  away  most  of  their  ammunition  ;  and,  as  we  came  up 
to  them,  they  were  about  despatching  a  party  to  the  rear 
for  more. 

"  '  Right,'  said  Captain  Turpic  ;  '  I  don't  care  though  I 
lend  you  a  hand,  and  go  with  you.' 

" '  On  your  peril,  sir ! '  said  Bill  Whyte.  '  What !  leave 
your  company  in  the  moment  of  the  expected  charge  !  I 
shall  assuredly  report  you  for  cowardice  and  desertion  of 
quarters  if  you  do.' 

"  '  And  I  shall  have  you  broke  for  mutiny,'  said  the  cap- 
tain. '  How  can  these  fellows  know  how  to  choose  their 
ammunition  without  some  one  to  direct  them  ?  ' 

"  And  so  off  he  went  to  the  rear  with  the  sailors ;  but, 
though  they  returned,  poor  fellows,  in  ten  minutes  or  so, 
we  saw  no  more  of  the  captain  till  evening.  On  came 
the  French  in  their  last  charge.  Ere  they  could  close 
with  us  the  sailors  had  fired  their  field-pieces  thrice,  and 
we  could  see  wide  avenues  opened  among  them  with  each 
discharge.  But  on  they  came.  Our  bayonets  crossed  and 
clashed  with  theirs  for  one  half-minute,  and  in  the  next 
they  were  hurled  headlong  down  the  declivity,  and  we 
were  fighting  among  them  pell-mell.  There  are  few  troops 
superior  to  the  French,  master,  in  a  first  attack;  but 
they  want  the  bottom  of  the  British  ;  and,  now  that  we 
had  broken  them  in  the  moment  of  their  onset,  they  had 
no  chance  with  us,  and  we  pitched  our  bayonets  into  them 
as  if  they  had  been  so  many  sheaves  in  harvest.  They  lay 
in  some  places  three  and  four  tiers  deep  ;  for  our  blood 
was  up,  master ;  just  as  they  advanced  on  us  Ave  had  heard 
of  the  death  of  our  general,  and  they  neither  asked  for 


BILL   WHYTE.  227 

quarter  nor  got  it.  Ah,  the  good  and  gallant  Sir  Ralph  ! 
We  all  felt  as  if  we  had  lost  a  father ;  but  he  died  as  the 
brave  best  love  to  die.  The  field  was  all  our  own ;  and 
not  a  Frenchman  remained  who  was  not  dead  or  dying. 
That  action,  master,  fairly  broke  the  neck  of  their  power 
in  Egypt. 

"Our  colonel  was  severely  wounded,  as  I  have  told  you, 
early  in  the  morning;  but,  though  often  enough  urged  to 
retire,  he  had  held  out  all  day,  and  had  issued  his  orders 
with  all  the  coolness  and  decision  for  which  he  was  so  re- 
markable ;  but  now  that  the  excitement  of  the  fight  was 
over  his  strength  failed  him  at  once,  and  he  had  to  be 
carried  to  his  tent.  He  called  for  Bill  to  assist  in  bearing 
him  off.  I  believe  it  was  merely  that  he  might  have 
the  opportunity  of  speaking  to  him.  He  told  him  that, 
whether  he  died  or  lived,  he  would  take  care  that  he  should 
be  provided  for.  He  gave  Captain  Turpic  charge,  too,  that 
he  should  keep  a  warm  side  to  Bill.  I  overheard  our 
major  say  to  the  captain,  as  we  left  the  tent,  'Good  heav- 
ens! did  you  ever  see  two  men  liker  one  another  than  the 
colonel  and  our  new  sergeant  ?  '  But  the  captain  care- 
lessly remarked  that  the  resemblance  didn't  strike  him. 

"  We  met  outside  with  a  comrade.  He  had  had  a  cousin 
in  the  forty-second,  he  said,  who  had  been  killed  that 
morning,  and  he  was  anxious  to  see  the  body  decently 
buried,  and  wished  us  to  go  along  with  him.  And  so  we 
both  went.  .  It  is  nothing,  master,  to  see  men  struck  down 
in  warm  blood,  and  when  one's  own  blood  is  up ;  but  oh, 
'tis  a  grievous  thing,  after  one  has  cooled  down  to  one's 
ordinary  mood,  to  go  out  among  the  dead  and  the  dying! 
We  passed  through  what  had  been  the  thick  of  the  battle. 
The  slain  lay  in  hundreds  and  thousands,  —  like  the  ware 
and  tangle  on  the  shore  below  us,  —  horribly  broken,  some 


228  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

of  them,  by  the  shot ;  and  blood  and  brains  lay  spattered 
on  the  sand.  But  it  was  a  worse  sight  to  see,  when  some 
poor  wretch,  who  had  no  chance  of  living  an  hour  longer, 
opened  his  eyes  as  we  passed  and  cried  out  for  water. 
We  soon  emptied  our  canteens,  and  then  had  to  pass  on. 
In  no  place  did  the  dead  lie  thicker  than  where  the  forty- 
second  had  engaged  the  invincibles  ;  and  never  were  there 
finer  fellows.  They  lay  piled  in  heaps,  —  the  best  men  of 
Scotland  over  the  best  men  of  France,  —  and  their  wounds 
and  their  number  and  the  postures  in  which  they  lay 
showed  how  tremendous  the  struggle  had  been.  I  saw  one 
gigantic  corpse  with  the  head  and  neck  cloven  through 
the  steel  cap  to  the  very  brisket.  It  was  that  of  a  French- 
man ;  but  the  hand  that  had  drawn  the  blow  lay  cold  and 
stiff*  not  a  yard  away,  with  the  broadsword  still  firm  in  its 
grasp.  A  little  further  on  we  found  the  body  we  sought. 
It  was  that  of  a  fair  young  man.  The  features  were  as  com- 
posed as  if  he  were  asleep ;  there  was  even  a  smile  on  the 
lips  ;  but  a  cruel  cannon-shot  had  torn  the  very  heart  out  of 
the  breast.  Evening  was  falling.  There  was  a  little  dog 
whining  and  whimpering  over  the  body,  aware,  it  would 
seem,  that  some  great  ill  had  befallen  its  master,  but  yet 
tugging  from  time  to  time  at  his  clothes,  that  he  might  rise 
and  come  away. 

"  '  Ochon,  ochon  !  poor  Evan  M'Donald  ! '  exclaimed  our 
comrade  ;  '  what  would  Christy  Ross  or  your  good  old 
mother  say  to  see  you  lying  here  ! ' 

"  Bill  burst  out  a-cryiug  as  if  he  had  been  a  child ;  and 
I  couldn't  keep  dry-eyed  neither,  master.  But  grief  and 
pity  are  weaknesses  of  the  bravest  natures.  We  scooped 
out  a  hole  in  the  sand  with  our  bayonets  and  our  hands,  and 
burying  the  body,  came  away. 

"The  battle  of  the  21st  broke  —  as  I  have  said  —  the 


BILL   WHYTE.  229 

strength  of  the  French  in  Egypt;  for  though  they  didn't 
surrender  to  us  until  about  five  months  after,  they  kept 
snug  behind  their  walls,  and  we  saw  little  more  of  them. 
Our  colonel  had  gone  aboard  of  the  frigate  desperately  ill 
of  his  wounds ;  so  ill  that  it  was  several  times  reported  he 
was  dead  ;  and  most  of  our  men  were  suffering  sadly  from 
sore  eyes  ashore.  But  such  of  us  as  escaped  had  little  to 
do,  and  we  contrived  to  while  away  the  time  agreeably 
enough.  Strange  country,  Egypt,  master.  You  know  our 
people  have  come  from  there ;  but,  trust  me,  I  could  find 
none  of  my  cousins  among  either  the  Turks  or  the  Arabs. 
The  Arabs,  master,  are  quite  the  gipsies  of  Egypt  ;  and 
Bill  and  I  —  but  he  paid  dearly  for  them  afterwards,  poor 
fellow  —  used  frequently  to  visit  such  of  their  straggling 
tribes  as  came  to  the  neighborhood  of  our  camp.  You  and 
the  like  of  you,  master,  are  curious  to  see  our  people,  and 
how  we  get  on  ;  and  no  wonder;  and  we  were  just  as  cu- 
rious to  see  the  Arabs.  Towards  evening  they  used  to 
come  in  from  the  shore  or  the  desert  in  parties  of  ten  or 
twelve.  And  wild-looking  fellows  they  were  ;  tall,  but 
not  very  tall,  thin  and  skinny  and  dark,  and  an  amaz- 
ing proportion  of  them  blind  of  an  eye,  —  an  effect,  I  sup- 
pose, of  the  disease  from  which  our  comrades  were  suffering 
so  much.  In  a  party  of  ten  or  twelve  — and  their  parties 
rarely  exceeded  a  dozen  —  we  found  that  every  one  of 
them  had  some  special  office  to  perform.  Ont:  carried  a 
fishing-net,  like  a  herring  have;  one,  perhaps,  a  basket  of 
fish,  newly  caught;  one  a  sheaf  of  wheat ;  one  a  large  cop- 
per basin,  or  rather  platter;  one  a  bundle  of  the  dead 
boughs  and  leaves  of  the  date-tree;  one  the  implements 
for  lighting  a  fire  ;  and  so  on.  The  first  thing  they  always 
diil,  after  squatting  down  in  a  circle,  was  to  strike  a  light ; 
the  next  to  dig  a  round  pot-like  hole  in  the  sand,  in 
20 


230  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

which  they  kindle  their  fire.  When  the  sand  had  become 
sufficiently  hot,  they  threw  out  the  embers,  and  placing 
the  fish,  just  as  they  had  caught  them,  in  the  bottom  of 
the  hole,  heaped  the  hot  sand  over  them,  and  the  fire  over 
that.  The  sheaf  of  wheat  was  next  untied,  and  each  taking 
a  handful,  held  it  over  the  flame  till  it  was  sufficiently 
scorched,  and  then  rubbed  out  the  grain  between  their 
hands  into  the  copper  plate.  The  fire  was  then  drawn  oif 
a  second  time,  and  the  fish  dug  out ;  and,  after  rubbing  off 
the  sand  and  taking  out  the  bowels,  they  sat  down  to  sup- 
per. And  such,  master,  was  the  ordinary  economy  of  the 
poorer  tribes,  that  seemed  drawn  to  the  camp  merely  by 
curiosity.  Some  of  the  others  brought  fruit  and  vegetables 
to  our  market,  and  were  much  encouraged  by  our  officers. 
But  a  set  of  greater  rascals  never  breathed.  At  first  several 
of  our  men  got  flogged  through  them.  They  had  a  trick  of 
raising  a  hideous  outcry  in  the  market-place  for  every  trifle, 
certain,  d'ye  see,  of  attracting  the  notice  of  some  of  our 
officers,  who  were  all  sure  to  take  part  with  them.  The 
market,  master,  had  to  be  encouraged  at  all  events ;  and  it 
was  some  time  ere  the  tricks  of  the  rascals  were  understood 
in  the  proper  quarter.  But,  to  make  short,  Bill  and  I  went 
out  one  morning  to  our  walk.  We  had  just  heard  —  and 
heavy  news  it  was  to  the  whole  regiment  —  that  our  col- 
onel was  despaired  of,  and  had  no  chance  of  seeing  out  the 
day.  Bill  was  in  miserably  low  spirits.  Captain  Turpic 
had  insulted  him  most  grossly  that  morning.  So  long  as 
the  colonel  had  been  expected  to  recover,  he  had  shown 
him  some  degree  of  civility  ;  but  he  now  took  every  op- 
portunity of  picking  a  quarrel  with  him.  There  was  no 
comparison  in  battle,  master,  between  Bill  and  the  captain, 
for  the  captain,  I  suspect,  was  little  better  than  a  coward ; 
but  then  there  was  just  as  little  on  parade  the  other  way  ; 


BILL    WHYTE.  231 

for  Bill,  you  know,  couldn't  know  a  great  deal,  and  the  cap- 
tain was  a  perfect  martinet.  He  had  called  him  vagrant 
and  beggar,  master,  for  omitting  some  little  piece  of  duty. 
Now  he  couldn't  help  having  been  with  us,  you  know ;  and 
as  for  beggary,  he  had  never  begged  in  his  life.  Well,  we 
had  walked  out  towards  the  market,  as  I  say. 

"  '  It's  all  nonsense,  Jack,'  says  he,  '  to  be  so  dull  on  the 
matter  ;  I'll  e'en  treat  you  to  some  fruit.  I  have  a  Sicilian 
dollar  here.  See  that  lazy  fellow  with  the  spade  lying  in 
front,  and  the  burning  mountain  smoking  behind  him.  We 
must  see  if  he  can't  dig.  out  for  us  a  few  pratis'  worth  of 
dates.' 

"  Well,  master,  up  he  went  to  a  tall,  thin,  rascally-look- 
ing Arab,  with  one  eye,  and  bought  as  much  fruit  from  him 
as  might  come  to  one  tenth  of  the  dollar  which  he  gave  him, 
and  then  held  out  his  hand  for  the  change.  But  there  was 
no  change  forthcomings.  Bill  wasn't  a  man  to  be  done  out 
of  his  cash  in  that  silly  way,  and  so  he  stormed  at  the  ras- 
cal ;  but  he,  in  turn,  stormed  as  furiously,  in  his  own  lingo, 
at  him,  till  at  last  Bill's  blood  got  up,  and,  seizing  him  by 
the  breast,  he  twisted  him  over  his  knee  as  one  might  a 
boy  of  ten  years  or  so.  The  fellow  raised  a  hideous  outcry, 
as  if  Bill  were  robbing  and  murdering  him.  Two  officers, 
who  chanced  to  be  in  the  market  at  the  time,  came  running 
up  at  the  noise.  One  of  them  was  the  scoundrel  Turpic  ; 
and  Bill  was  laid  hold  of,  and  sent  off  under  guard  to  the 
camp.  Poor  fellow,  he  got  scant  justice  there.  Turpic 
had  procured  a  man-of-war's-man,  who  swore,  as  well 
he  might,  indeed,  that  Bill  was  the  smuggler  who  had 
swamped  the  Kirkcudbright  custom-house  boat.  There 
was  another  brought  forward  who  swore  that  both  of  us 
were  gipsies,  and  told  a  blasted  rigmarole  story,  without 
one  word  of  truth  in  it,  about  the  stealing  of  a  silver  spoon. 


232  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

The  Arab  had  his  story,  too,  in  his  own  lingo  ;  and  they  re- 
ceived every  word ;  for  ray  evidence  went  for  nothing.  I 
-was  of  a  race  who  never  spoke  the  truth,  they  said,  as  if  I 
weren't  as  good  as  a  Mohammedan  Arab.  To  crown  all,  in 
came  Turpic's  story  about  what  he  called  Bill's  mutinous 
spirit  in  the  action  of  the  21st.  You  may  guess  the  rest, 
master.  The  j>oor  fellow  was  broke  that  morning,  and 
told  that,  were  it  not  in  consideration  of  his  bravery,  he 
would  have  got  a  flogging  into  the  bargain. 

"  I  spent  the  evening  of  that  day  with  Bill  outside  the 
camp,  and  we  ate  the  dates  together  that  in  the  morning 
had  cost  him  so  dear.  The  report  had  gone  abroad,  — 
luckily  a  false  one,  —  that  our  colonel  was  dead  ;  and  th.it 
put  an  end  to  all  hope  with  the  poor  fellow  of  having  his 
case  righted.  We  spoke  together  for  I  am  sure  two  hours  ; 
spoke  of  Bill's  early  recollections,  and  of  the  hardship  of 
Ins  fate  all  along.  And  it  was  now  worse  with  him,  he 
said,  than  it  had  ever  been  before.  He  spoke  of  the  strange, 
unaccountable  hostility  of  Turpic ;  and  I  saw  his  brow 
grow  dark,  and  the  veins  of  his  neck  swell  almost  to  burst- 
ing. He  trusted  they  might  yet  meet,  he  said,  where  there 
would  be  none  to  note  who  was  the  officer  and  who  the 
private  soldier.  I  did  my  best,  master,  to  console  the  poor 
fellow,  and  we  parted.  The  first  thing  I  saw,  as  I  opened 
the  tent-door  next  morning,  was  Captain  Turpic,  brought 
into  the  camp  by  the  soldier  whose  cousin  Bill  and  I  had 
assisted  to  bury.  The  captain  was  leaning  on  his  shoulder, 
somewhat  less  than  half  alive,  as  it  seemed,  with  four  of 
his  front  teeth  struck  out,  and  a  stream  of  blood  all  along 
his  vest  and  small  clothes.  He  had  been  met  with  by  Bill, 
who  had  attacked  him,  he  said,  and,  after  breaking  his 
sword,  would  have  killed  him,  had  not  the  soldier  come 
up  and   interfered.     But  that,  master,  was  the  captain's 


BILL   WHYTE.  233 

story.  The  soldier  told  me  afterwards  that  he  saw  the 
captain  draw  his  sword  ere  Bill  lifted  hand  at  all ;  and 
that,  when  the  poor  fellow  did  strike,  he  gave  him  only  one 
knock-down  blow  on  the  mouth,  that  laid  him  insensible 
at  his  feet;  and  that,  when  down,  though  he  might  have 
killed  him  twenty  times  over,  he  didn't  so  much  as  crook 
a  finger  on  him.  Nay,  more,  Bill  offered  to  deliver  him- 
self up  to  the  soldier,  had  not  the  latter  assured  him  that 
he  would  to  a  certainty  be  shot,  and  advised  him  to  make 
off.  There  was  a  party  despatched  in  quest  of  him,  master, 
the  moment  Turpic  had  told  his  story ;  but  he  was  lucky 
enough,  poor  fellow,  to  elude  them  ;  and  they  returned  in 
the  evening  just  as  they  had  gone  out.  And  I  saw  no 
more  of  Bill  in  Egypt,  master. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  DENOUEMENT. 

"  After  all  our  fears  and  regrets,  master,  our  colonel 

recovered,  and  one  morning  about  four  months  after  the 

net  ion,  came  ashore  to  see  us.     We  were  sadly  pestered 

with    flies,   master.      They  buzzed    all   night   by  millions 

round  our  noses,  and  many  a  plan  did  we  think  of  to  get 

rid   of  them;    but   after  destroying  hosts   on   hosts,  they 

still  seemed   as   thick  as  before.     I  had  fallen  on  a  new 

scheme  this   morning.     I  placed  some  sugar  on  a  board, 

and  surrounded  it  with  gunpowder;    and  when  the  flies 

had   settled   by  thousands  on  the  sugar,  I  fired  the  gun- 

powder  by  means  of  a  train,  and  the  whole  fell  dead  on 

the  floor  of  the  tent.     I  bad  just  got  a  capital  shot,  when 

up  came  the  colonel  and  sat  down  beside  me. 
20* 


234  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

'"I  wish  to  know,'  he  said,  'all  you  can  tell  me  about 
Bill  Whyte.  You  were  his  chief  friend  and  companion,  I 
have  heard,  and  are  acquainted  with  his  early  history. 
Can  you  tell  me  aught  of  his  parentage?  ' 

'"Nothing  of  that,  Colonel,'  I  said;  'and  yet  I  have 
known  Bill  almost  ever  since  he  knew  himself.' 

"  And  so,  master,  I  told  him  all  that  I  knew :  how  Bill 
had  been  first  taken  to  us  by  my  mother ;  of  the  purse  of 
gold  she  had  brought  with  her,  which  had  kept  us  all  so 
merry ;  and  of  the  noble  spirit  he  had  shown  among  us 
when  he  grew  up.  I  told  him,  too,  of  some  of  Bill's  early 
recollections  ;  of  the  scarlet  dress  trimmed  with  silver, 
which  had  been  brought  to  his  mind  by  the  sergeant's  coat 
the  first  day  he  wore  it ;  of  the  gentleman  and  lady,  too, 
whom  he  remembered  to  have  lived  with;  and  of  the  sup- 
posed resemblance  he  had  found  between  the  former  and 
the  colonel.  The  colonel,  as  I  went  on,  was  sti'angely 
agitated,  master.  He  held  an  open  letter  in  his  hand,  and 
seemed  every  now  and  then  to  be  comparing  particulars ; 
and  when  I  mentioned  Bill's  supposed  recognition  of  him, 
he  actually  started  from  off  his  seat. 

" '  Good  heavens !'  he  exclaimed, '  why  was  I  not  brought 
acquainted  with  this  before  ? ' 

"  I  explained  the  why,  master,  and  told  him  all  about 
Captain  Turpic ;  and  he  left  me  with,  you  may  be  sure, 
no  very  favorable  opinion  of  the  captain.  But  I  must  now 
tell  you,  master,  a  part  of  my  story,  which  I  had  but  from 
hearsay. 

"  The  colonel  had  been  getting  over  the  worse  effects  of 
his  wound,  when  he  received  a  letter  from  a  friend  in  Eng- 
land informing  him  that  his  brother-in-law,  the  father  of 
Captain  Turpic,  had  died  suddenly,  and  that  his  sister, 
who  to  all  appearance  was  fast  following,  had  been  making 


BILL    WHYTE.  235 

strange  discoveries  regarding  an  only  son  of  the  colonel's, 
who  was  supposed  to  have  been  drowned  about  seventeen 
years  before.  The  colonel  had  lost  both  his  lady  and  child 
by  a  frightful  accident.  His  estate  lay  near  Olney,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Ouse  ;  and  the  lady  one  day,  during  the  ab- 
sence of  the  colonel,  who  was  in  London,  was  taking  an 
airing  in  the  carriage  with  her  son,  a  boy  of  three  years 
or  so,  when  the  horses  took  fright,  and,  throwing  the 
coachman,  who  was  killed  on  the  spot,  rushed  into  the 
river.  The  Ouse  is  a  deep,  sluggish  stream,  dark  and 
muddy  in  some  of  the  more  dangerous  pools,  and  mantled 
over  with  weeds.  It  was  into  one  of  these  the  carriage 
was  overturned.  Assistance  came  late,  and  the  unfortunate 
lady  was  brought  out  a  corpse  ;  but  the  body  of  the  child 
was  nowhere  to  be  found.  It  now  came  out,  however, 
from  the  letter,  that  the  child  had  been  picked  up  unhurt 
by  the  colonel's  brother-in-law,  who,  after  concealing  it  for 
nearly  a  week  during  the  very  frenzy  of  the  colonel's  dis- 
tress, had  then  given  it  to  a  gipsy.  The  rascal's  only 
motive  —  he  was  a  lawyer,  master  —  was,  that  his  own  son, 
the  captain,  who  was  then  a  boy  of  twelve  years  or  so,  and 
not  wholly  ignorant  of  the  circumstance,  might  succeed  to 
the  colonel's  estate.  The  writer  of  the  letter  added  that, 
on  coming  to  the  knowledge  of  this  singular  confession,  he 
had  made  instant  search  after  the  gipsy  to  whom  the  child 
had  been  given,  and  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  find 
her,  after  tracing  her  over  half  the  kingdom,  in  a  cave  near 
Fortrose,  in  the  north  of  Scotland.  She  had  confessed 
all ;  stating,  however,  that  the  lad,  who  had  borne  among 
the  tribe  the  name  of  Bill  Whyte,  and  had  turned  out  a 
fine  fellow,  had  been  outlawed  for  some  smuggling  feat, 
about  eighteen  months  before,  and  had  enlisted  with  a 
young  man,  her  son,  into  a  regiment  bound  for  Egypt. 


236  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

You  see,  master,  there  couldn't  be  a  shadow  of  doubt  that 
my  comrade  Bill  "Whyte  was  just  Henry  Westhope,  the 
colonel's  son  and  heir.  But  the  grand  matter  was  where 
to  find  him.  Search  as  we  might,  all  search  was  in  vain. 
We  could  trace  him  no  further  than  outside  the  camp  to 
where  he  had  met  with  Captain  Turpic.  I  should  tell  you, 
by  the  way,  that  the  captain  was  now  sent  to  Coventry  by 
every  one,  and  that  not  an  officer  in  the  regiment  would 
return  his  salute. 

"  Well,  master,  the  months  passed,  and  at  length  the 
French  surrendered ;  and,  having  no  more  to  do  in  Egypt, 
we  all  re-embarked,  and  sailed  for  England.  The  short 
peace  had  been  ratified  before  our  arrival ;  and  I,  who  had 
become  heartily  tired  of  the  life  of  a  soldier  now  that  I  had 
no  one  to  associate  with,  was  fortunate  enough  to  obtain 
my  discharge.  The  colonel  retired  from  the  service  at  the 
same  time.  He  was  as  kind  to  me  as  if  he  had  been  my 
father,  and  offered  to  make  me  his  forester  if  I  would  but 
come  and  live  beside  him.  But  I  was  too  fond  of  a  wan. 
dering  life  for  that.  He  was  corresponding,  he  told  me, 
with  every  British  consul  within  fifteen  hundred  miles  of 
the  Nile ;  but  he  had  heard  nothing  of  Bill,  master.  Well, 
after  seeing  the  colonel's  estate,  I  parted  from  him,  and 
came  north  to  find  out  my  people,  which  I  soon  did ;  and, 
for  a  year  or  so,  I  lived  with  them  just  as  I  have  been 
doing  since.  I  was  led  in  the  course  of  my  wanderings  to 
Leith,  and  was  standing  one  morning  on  the  pier  among  a 
crowd  of  people,  who  had  gathered  round  to  see  a  fine 
vessel  from  the  Levant  that  was  coining  in  at  the  time, 
when  my  eye  caught  among  the  sailors  a  man  exceedingly 
like  Bill.  He  was  as  tall,  and  even  more  robust,  and  he 
wrought  with  all  Bill's  activity  ;  but  for  some  time  I  could 
not  catch  a  glimpse  of  his  face.     At  length,  however,  he 


BILL  WHYTE.  237 

turned  round,  and  there,  sure  enough,  was  Bill  himself.  I 
was  afraid  to  hail  him,  master,  not  knowing  who  among 
the  crowd  might  also  know  him,  and  know  him  also  as  a 
deserter  or  an  outlaw ;  but  you  may  be  sure  I  wasn't  long 
in  leaping  aboard  and  making  up  to  him.  And  we  were 
soon  as  happy,  master,  in  one  of  the  cellars  of  the  Coal 
Hill,  as  we  had  been  all  our  lives  before. 

"  Bill  told  me  his  history  since  our  parting.  He  had  left 
the  captain  lying  at  his  feet,  and  struck  across  the  sand  in 
the  direction  of  the  Nile,  one  of  the  mouths  of  which  he 
reached  next  day.  He  there  found  some  Greek  sailors, 
who  were  employed  in  watering ;  and,  assisting  them  in 
their  work,  he  was  brought  aboard  their  vessel,  and  engaged 
as  a  seaman  by  the  master,  who  had  lost  some  of  his  crew 
by  the  plague.  As  you  may  think,  master,  he  soon  became 
a  prime  sailor,  and  continued  with  the  Greeks,  trading 
among  the  islands  of  the  Archipelago  for  about  eighteen 
months,  when,  growing  tired  of  the  service,  and  meeting 
with  an  English  vessel,  he  had  taken  a  passage  home.  I 
told  him  how  much  ado  we  had  all  had  about  him  after  he 
had  left  us,  and  how  we  were  to  call  him  Bill  YVhyte  no 
longer.  And  so,  in  short,  master,  we  set  out  together  for 
Colonel  Westliopu's. 

"  In  our  journey  we  met  with  some  of  our  people  on  a 
wild  moor  of  Cumberland,  and  were  invited  to  pass  the 
night  with  them.  They  were  of  the  Curlit  family  ;  but 
you  will  hardly  know  them  by  that.  Two  of  them  had 
been  with  us  when  Bill  swamped  the  custom-house  boat. 
They  were  fierce,  desperate  fellows,  and  not  much  to  be 
trusted  by  their  friends  even  ;  and  I  was  afraid  that 
they  might  have  somehow  come  to  guess  that  Bill  had 
brought  some  clinkers  home  with  him.  And  so,  master,  I 
would  fain  have  dissuaded  him  from  making  any  stay  with 


238  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

them  in  the  night-time  ;  for  I  did  not  know,  you  see,  in 
what  case  we  might  find  our  weasands  in  the  morning.  But 
Bill  had  no  fears  of  any  kind,  and  was,  beside,  desirous  to 
spend  one  last  night  with  the  gipsies  ;  and  so  he  staid. 
The  party  had  taken  up  their  quarters  in  a  waste  house  on 
the  moor,  with  no  other  human  dwelling  within  four  miles 
of  it.  There  was  a  low,  stunted  wood  on  the  one  side, 
master,  and  a  rough,  sweeping  stream  on  the  other.  The 
night,  too,  was  wild  and  boisterous  ;  and,  what  between 
suspicion  and  discomfort,  I  felt  well-nigh  as  drearily  as  I 
did  when  lying  among  the  dead  men  in  Egypt.  We  were 
nobly  treated,  however,  and  the  whiskey  flowed  like  water. 
But  we  drank  no  more  than  was  good  for  us.  Indeed,  Bill 
was  never  a  great  drinker  ;  and  I  kept  on  my  guard,  and 
refused  the  liquor  on  the  plea  of  a  bad  head.  I  should 
have  told  you  that  there  were  but  three  of  the  Curlits  — 
all  of  them  raw-boned  fellows,  however,  and  all  of  them  of 
such  stamp  that  the  three  have  since  been  hung.  I  saw 
they  were  sounding  Bill ;  but  he  seemed  aware  of  them. 

" '  Aye,  aye,'  says  he,  '  I  have  made  something  by  my  voy- 
aging, lads,  though,  mayhap,  not  a  great  deal.  What  think 
you  of  that  there  now,  for  instance  ? '  —  drawing,  as  he 
spoke,  a  silver-mounted  pistol  out  of  each  pocket.  '  These 
are  pretty  pops,  and  as  good  as  they  are  pretty.  The  worst 
of  them  sends  a  bullet  through  an  inch-board  at  twenty 
yards.' 

" '  Are  they  loaded,  Bill  ? '  asked  Tom  Curlit. 

" '  To  be  sure,'  said  Bill,  returning  them  again  each  to 
its  own  pouch.     '  What  is  the  use  of  an  empty  pistol  ? ' 

"  '  Ah,'  replied  Tom,  '  I  smell  a  rat,  Bill.  You  have  given 
over  making  war  on  the  king's  account,  and  have  taken 
the  road  to  make  war  on  your  own.  Bold  enough,  to  be 
sure.' 


BILL   WHYTE.  239 

"  From  the  moment  they  saw  the  pistols,  the  brothers 
seemed  to  have  changed  their  plan  regarding  us;  for  some 
plan  I  am  certain  they  had.  They  would  now  fain  have 
taken  us  into  partnership  with  them  ;  but  their  trade  was 
a  woundy  bad  one,  master,  with  a  world  more  of  risk  than 
profit. 

" '  Why,  lads,'  said  Tom  Curlit  to  Bill  and  me,  '  hadn't 
you  better  stay  with  us  altogether?  The  road  won't  do 
in  these  days  at  all.  No,  no ;  the  law  is  a  vast  deal  over- 
strong  for  that,  and  you  will  be  tucked  up  like  dogs  for 
your  very  first  affair.  But  if  you  stay  with  us,  you  will 
get  on  in  a  much  quieter  way  on  this  wild  moor  here. 
Plenty  of  game,  Bill ;  and  sometimes,  when  the  nights  are 
long,  we  contrive  to  take  a  purse  with  a3  little  ti'ouble  as 
may  be.  We  had  an  old  peddler  only  three  weeks  ago  that 
brought  us  sixty  good  pounds.  By  the  way,  brothers,  we 
must  throw  a  few  more  sods  over  him,  for  I  nosed  him  this 
morning  as  I  went  by.  And,  lads,  we  have  something  in 
hand  just  now,  that,  with,  to  be  sure,  a  little  more  risk,  will 
pay  better  still.  Two  hundred  yellow  boys  in  hand,  and 
five  hundred  more  when  our  work  is  done.  Better  that, 
Bill,  than  standing  to  be  shot  at  for  a  shilling  per  day.' 

'"Two  hundred  in  hand  and  five  hundred  more  when 
you  have  done  your  work  ! '  exclaimed  Bill.  '  Why,  that 
is  sure  enough  princely  pay,  unless  the  work  be  very  bad 
indeed.  But  come,  tell  us  what  you  propose.  You  can't 
expect  us  to  make  it  a  leap-in -the-dark  matter.1 

" '  The  work  is  certainly  a  little  dangerous,'  said  Tom, 
'and  we  of  ourselves  are  rather  few  ;  but  if  you  both  join 
with  us  there  would  be  a  vast  deal  less  of  danger  indeed. 
The  matter  is  just  this.  A  young  fellow,  like  ourselves, 
has  a  rich  old  uncle,  who  has  made  his  will  in  his  ftivor ; 
but  then  he  threatens  to  make  another  will  that  won't  be 


240  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

so  favorable  to  him  by  half;  and  you  see  the  drawing  across 
of  a  knife  —  so  —  would  keep  the  first  one  in  force.  And 
that  is  all  we  have  to  do  before  pocketing  the  blunt.  But 
then  the  old  fellow  is  as  brave  as  a  lion,  and  there  are  two 
servants  with  him,  worn-out  soldiers  like  himself,  that 
would,  I  am  sure,  be  rough  customers.  With  your  help, 
however,  we  shall  get  on  primely.  The  old  boy's  house 
stands  much  alone,  and  we  shall  be  five  to  three.' 

"c  Well,  well,'  said  Bill ;  '  we  shall  give  your  proposal  a 
night's  thought,  and  tell  you  what  we  think  of  it  in  the 
morning.  But  remember,  no  tricks,  Tom  !  If  we  engage 
in  the  work,  we  must  go  share  and  share  alike  in  the 
booty.' 

"  '  To  be  sure,'  said  Tom  ;  and  so  the  conversation 
closed. 

"  About  eight  o'clock  or  so,  master,  I  stepped  out  to  the 
door.  The  night  was  dark  and  boisterous  as  ever,  and 
there  had  come  on  a  heavy  rain.  But  I  could  see  that, 
dark  and  boisterous  as  it  was,  some  one  was  approaching 
the  house  with  a  dark  lantern.  I  lost  no  time  in  telling: 
the  Curlits  so. 

"  '  It  must  be  the  captain,'  said  they,  '  though  it  seems 
strange  that  he  should  come  here  to-night.  You  must 
away,  Jack  and  Bill,  to  the  loft,  for  it  mayn't  do  for  the 
captain  to  find  you  here ;  but  you  can  lend  us  a  hand  after- 
wards, should  need  require  it.' 

"  There  was  no  time  for  asking  explanations,  master, 
and  so  up  we  climbed  to  the  loft,  and  had  got  snugly  con- 
cealed among  some  old  hay,  when  in  came  the  captain. 
But  what  captain,  think  you  ?  Why,  just  our  old  acquaint- 
ance Captain  Turpic  ! 

"  '  Lads,'  he  said  to  the  Curlits,  '  make  yourselves  ready; 
get  your  pistols.     Our  old  scheme  is  blown,  for  the  colonel 


BILL    AVHYTE.  241 

has  left  his  house  at  Olney  on  a  journey  to  Scotland ;  but 
he  passes  here  to-night,  and  you  must  find  means  to  stop 
him,  —  now  or  never ! ' 

"  '  What  force  and  what  arms  has  he  with  him,  captain?' 
asked  Tom. 

"  '  The  coachman,  his  body  servant,  and  himself,'  said  the 
captain  ;  '  but  only  the  servant  and  himself  are  armed. 
The  stream  outside  is  high  to-night;  you  must  take  them 
just  as  they  are  crossing  it,  and  thinking  of  only  the  water; 
and  whatever  else  you  may  mind,  make  sure  of  the  colonel.' 

"'Sure  as  I  live,'  said  Bill  to  me,  in  a  low  whisper,  ''tis 
a  plan  to  murder  Colonel  Westhope  !  And,  good  heav- 
ens!' he  continued,  pointing  through  an  opening  in  the 
gable,  '  yonder  is  his  carriage  not  a  mile  away.  You  may 
see  the  lantern,  like  two  fiery  eyes,  coming  sweeping  along 
the  moor.  We  have  no  time  to  lose.  Let  us  slide  down 
through  the  opening  and  meet  with  it.' 

"  As  soon  done  as  said,  master.  We  slid  down  along  the 
turf  gable;  crossed  the  stream,  which  had  risen  high  on  its 
banks,  by  a  plank  bridge  for  foot-passengers  ;  and  then 
dashed  along  the  broken  road  in  the  direction  of  the  car- 
riage. We  came  up  to  it  as  it  was  slowly  crossing  an  open 
drain. 

"'Colonel  Westhope!'  I  cried,  ' Colonel  Westhope!  — 
stop  !  —  stop  !  —  turn  back  !  You  are  waylaid  by  a  party 
of  ruffians,  who  will  murder  you  if  you  go  on.' 

The  door  opened,  and  the  colonel  stepped  out,  with  his 
sword  under  his  left  arm,  and  a  cocked  pistol  in  his  hand. 

"'Is  not  that  Jack  Whyte? '   he  asked. 

"  'The  same,  noble  colonel,'  I  said  ;  '  and  here  is  Henry, 
your  son.' 

"  It  was  no  place  or  time,  master,  for  long  explanations ; 
there  was  one  hearty  congratulation,  and  one  hurried  ern- 

21 


242  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

brace  ;  and  the  colonel,  after  learning  from  Bill  the  num- 
ber of  the  assailants  and  the  plan  of  the  attack,  ordered  the 
carriage  to  drive  on  slowly  before,  and  followed,  with  us 
and  his  servant,  on  foot,  behind. 

" '  The  rascals,'  he  said,  '  will  be  so  dazzled  with  the  flare 
of  the  lanterns  in  front,  that  we  will  escape  notice  till  they 
have  fired,  and  then  we  shall  have  them  for  the  picking 
down.' 

"  And  so  it  was,  master.  Just  as  the  carriage  was  enter- 
ing the  stream,  the  coachman  was  pulled  down  by  Tom 
Curlit;  at  the  same  instant,  three  bullets  went  whizzing 
through  the  glasses,  and  two  fellows  came  leaping  out  from 
behind  some  furze  to  the  carriage  door.  A  third,  whom  I 
knew  to  be  the  cajDtain,  lagged  behind.  I  marked  him, 
however;  and  when  the  colonel  and  Bill  were  disposing  of 
the  other  two,  —  and  they  took  them  so  sadly  by  surprise, 
master,  that  they  had  but  little  difficulty  in  throwing  them 
down  and  binding  them,  —  I  was  lucky  enough  to  send  a 
piece  of  lead  through  the  captain.  He  ran  about  twenty 
yards,  and  then  dropped  down  stone  dead.  Tom  escaped 
us ;  but  he  cut  a  throat  some  months  after,  and  suffered  for 
it  at  Carlisle.  And  his  two  brothers,  after  making  a  clean 
breast,  and  confessing  all,  were  transported  for  life.  But 
they  found  means  to  return  in  a  few  years  after,  and  were 
both  hung  on  the  gallows  on  which  Tom  had  suffered 
before  them. 

"  I  have  not  a  great  deal  more  to  tell  you,  master.  The 
colonel  has  been  dead  for  the  last  twelve  years,  and  his  son 
has  succeeded  him  in  his  estate.  There  is  not  a  completer 
gentleman  in  England  than  Henry  Westhope,  master,  nor 
a  finer  fellow.  I  call  on  him  every  time  I  go  round,  and 
never  miss  a  hearty  welcome ;  though,  by  the  by,  I  am 
auite  as  sure  of  a  hearty  scold.     He  still  keeps  a  snug  little 


BILL   WHYTE.  243 

house  empty  for  me,  and  offers  to  settle  on  me  fifty  pounds 
a  year,  whenever  I  choose  to  give  up  my  wandering  life 
and  go  and  live  with  him.  But  what's  bred  in  the  bone 
won't  come  out  of  the  flesh,  master,  and  I  have  not  yet 
closed  with  his  offer.  And  really,  to  tell  you  my  mind,  I 
don't  think  it  quite  respectable.  Here  I  am,  at  present,  a 
free,  independent  tinker,  —  no  man  more  respectable  than  a 
tinker,  master,  all  allow  that,  —  whereas,  if  I  go  and  live 
with  Bill,  on  an  unwrought-for  fifty  pounds  a  year,  I  will 
be  hardly  better  than  a  mere  master-tailor  or  shoemaker. 
No,  no,  that  would  never  do !  Nothing  like  respectability, 
master,  let  a  man  fare  as  hard  as  he  may." 

I  thanked  the  gipsy  for  his  story,  and  told  him  I  thought 
it  almost  worth  while  putting  into  print.  He  thanked  me, 
in  turn,  for  liking  it  so  well,  and  assured  me  I  was  quite  at 
liberty  to  put  it  in  print  as  soon  as  I  chose.  And  so  I  took 
him  at  his  word. 

"  But  yonder,"  said  he,  "is  the  moon  rising,  red  and  huge, 
over  the  three  tops  of  Belrinnes,  and  throwing,  as  it  bright- 
ens, its  long  strip  of  fire  across  the  frith.  Take  care  of 
your  footing  just  as  you  reach  the  top  of  the  crag ;  there 
is  an  awkward  gap  there,  on  the  rock  edge,  that  reminds 
me  of  an  Indian  trap  ;  but  as  for  the  rest  of  the  path,  you 
will  find  it  quite  as  safe  as  by  day.     Good-bye." 

I  left  him,  and  made  the  best  of  my  way  home,  where, 
while  the  facts  were  fresh  in  my  mind,  I  committed  to  paper 
the  gipsy's  story. 


VII. 

THE    YOUNG    SURGEON. 

CHAPTER  I. 

It's  no'  in  books,  it's  no'  in  lear, 
To  make  us  truly  blest, 
If  Happiness  has  not  her  seat 
And  centre  in  the  breast. 

Burns. 

There  is  a  little   runnel  in   the  neighborhood  of  the 

town  of ,  which,  rising  amid  the  swamps  of  a  mossy 

hollow,  pursues  its  downward  way  along  the  bottom  of  a 
deep-wooded  ravine;  and  so  winding  and  circuitous  is  the 
course  which,  in  the  lapse  of  ages,  it  has  worn  for  itself 
through  a  subsoil  of  stiff  diluvial  clay,  that,  ere  a  late  pro- 
prietor lined  its  sides  with  garden-flowers  and  pathways 
covered  with  gravel,  and  then  willed  that  it  should  be 
named  the  "  Ladies'  Walk,"  it  was  known  to  the  towns- 
people as  the  Crook  Burn.  It  is  a  place  of  abrupt  angles 
and  sudden  turns.  We  see  that  when  the  little  stream 
first  leaped  from  its  urn  it  must  have  had  many  a  difficulty 
to  encounter,  and  many  an  obstacle  to  overcome  ;  but  they 
have  all  been  long  since  surmounted  ;  and  when  in  the  heat 
of  summer  we  hear  it  tinkling  through  the  pebbles,  with  a 
sound  so  feeble  that  it  hardly  provokes  the  chirp  of  the 


THE  YOUNG    SURGEON.  245 

robin,  and  see  that,  even  where  it  spreads  widest  to  the 
light,  it  presents  a  too  narrow  space  for  the  gambols  of  the 
water-spider,  we  marvel  how  it  could  ever  have  scooped 
out  for  itself  so  capacious  a  bed.  But  what  will  not  cen- 
turies of  perseverance  accomplish  !  The  tallest  trees  that 
rise  beside  it  —  and  there  are  few  taller  in  the  country  — 
scarcely  overtop  its  banks ;  and,  as  it  approaches  the  parish 
burying-ground,  — for  it  passes  close  beside  the  wall, —  we 
may  look  down  from  the  fields  above  on  the  topmost 
branches,  and  see  the  magpie  sitting  on  her  nest.  This 
little  stream,  so  attenuated  and  thread-like  during  the 
droughts  of  July  and  August,  and  which  after  every  heavier 
shower  comes  brawling  from  its  recesses,  reddened  by  a 
few  handfuls  of  clay,  has  swept  to  the  sea,  in  the  long 
unreckoned  succession  of  ages,  a  mass  mighty  enough  to 
have  furnished  the  materials  of  an  Egyptian  pyramid. 

In  even  the  loneliest  windings  of  the  Crook  Burn  we  find 
something  to  remind  us  of  the  world.  Every  smoother 
trunk  bears  its  inscription  of  dates  and  initials;  and  to  one 
who  has  resided  in  the  neighboring  town,  and  mingled 
freely  with  the  inhabitants,  there  is  scarcely  a  little  cluster 
of  characters  he  meets  witli  that  has  not  its  story.  Human 
nature  is  a  wonderful  thing,  and  interesting  in  even  its 
humblest  appearances  to  the  creatures  who  partake  of  it; 
nor  can  the  point  from  which  one  observes  it  be  too  near, 
or  the  observations  themselves  too  minute.  It  is  perhaps 
best,  however,  when  Ave  have  collected  our  materials,  to 
combine  and  arrange  them  at  some  little  distance.  We 
are  always  something  more  than  mere  observers,  —  we  pos- 
sess that  which  Ave  contemplate,  Avith  all  its  predilections 
and  all  its  antipathies,  —  and  there  is  dimness  or  distortion 
in  the  mirror  on  which  Ave  catch  the  features  of  our  neigh- 
bors, if  the  breath  of  passion  has  passed  over  it.  Do  Ave 
21* 


246  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

not  see  that  the  little  stream  beside  us  gives  us  a  faithful 
picture  of  what  surrounds  it  only  when  it  is  at  rest  ?  And 
it  is  well,  if  we  desire  to  think  correctly,  and  in  the  spirit  of 
charity,  of  our  brother  men,  that  we  should  be  at  rest  too. 
For  our  own  part,  we  love  best  to  think  of  the  dead  when 
their  graves  are  at  our  feet,  and  our  feelings  are  chastened 
by  the  conviction  that  we  ourselves  are  very  soon  to  take 
our  place  beside  them.  We  love  to  think  of  the  living,  not 
amid  the  hum  and  bustle  of  the  world,  when  the  thoughts 
are  hurried,  and  perhaps  the  sterner  passions  aroused,  but 
in  the  solitude  of  some  green  retreat,  by  the  side  of  some 
unfrequented  stream,  when  drinking  largely  of  the  beauty 
and  splendor  of  external  things,  and  feeling  that  we  our- 
selves are  man,  —  in  nature  and  destiny  the  being  whom  we 
contemplate.  There  is  nought  of  contempt  in  the  smile  to 
which  we  are  provoked  by  the  eccentricities  of  a  creature 
so  strange  and  wilful,  nor  of  bitterness  in  the  sorrow  with 
which  we  regard  his  crimes. 

In  passing  one  of  the  trees,  a  smooth-rinded  ash,  we  see  a 
few  characters  engraved  on  it,  which  at  the  first  glance  we 
deem  Hebrew,  but  which  we  find,  on  examination,  to  be- 
long to  some  less  known  alphabet  of  the  East.  There  hangs 
a  story  of  these  obscure  characters,  which,  though  little 
checkered  by  incident,  has  something  very  interesting  in  it. 
It  is  of  no  distant  date  ;  —  the  characters,  in  all  their  mi- 
nuter strokes,  are  still  unfilled  ;  but  the  hand  that  traced 
them,  and  the  eye  that  softened  in  expression  as  it  marked 
the  progress  of  the  work,  —  for  they  record  the  name  of 
a  lady-love,  —  are  now  mingled  with  the  clods  of  the  valley. 

Early  in  an  autumn  of  the  present  century,  ■ —  and  we 
need  not  be  more  explicit,  for  names  and  dates  are  no  way 
essential  to  what  we  have  to  relate,  —  a  small  tender  en- 
tered the  bay  of ,  and  cast  anchor  in  the  roadstead, 


THE  YOUNG    SURGEON.  247 

where  she  remained  for  nearly  two  months.  Our  country 
had  been  at  peace  with  all  the  world  for  years  before,  and 
the  arts  which  accompany  peace  had  extended  their  soft- 
ening influence  to  our  seamen,  a  class  of  men  not  much 
marked  in  the  past,  as  a  body  at  least,  —  though  it  had  pro- 
duced a  Dampier  and  a  Falconer,  —  for  aught  approaching 
to  literary  acquirement,  or  the  refinement  of  their  manners. 
And  the  officers  of  this  little  vessel  were  no  unfavorable 
specimens  of  the  more  cultivated  class.  They  were  in  gen- 
eral well  read  ;  and  possessing,  with  the  attainments,  the 
manners  of  gentlemen,  were  soon  on  terms  of  intimacy 
with  some  of  the  more  intelligent  inhabitants  of  the  place. 
There  was  one  among  them,  however,  whose  society  was 
little  courted.  He  was  a  young  and  strikingly  handsome 
man,  with  bright,  speaking  eyes,  and  a  fine  development  of 
forehead ;  but  the  higher  parts  of  his  nature  seemed  more 
than  balanced  by  the  lower;  and,  though  proud-spirited  and 
honorable,  he  was  evidently  sinking  into  a  hopeless  degra- 
dation, —  the  slave  of  habits  which  strengthen  with  indulg- 
ence, and  which  already  seemed  too  strong  to  be  overcome. 
He  accompanied,  on  two  or  three  occasions,  some  of  his 
brother  officers  when  engaged  in  calling  on  their  several 
acquaintances  of  the  place.  The  grosser  traits  of  his  char- 
acter had  become  pretty  generally  known,  and  report  had, 
as  usual,  rather  aggravated  than  lessened  them.  There 
was  something  whispered  of  a  low  intrigue  in  which  he  was 
said  to  have  been  engaged  ;  something,  too,  of  those  dis- 
reputable habits  of  solitary  indulgence  in  which  the  stimu- 
lating agent  is  recklessly  and  despairingly  employed  to 
satisfy  for  the  moment  the  ever-recurring  cravings  of  a 
di -prayed  appetite,  and  which  are  regarded  as  precluding 
the  hope  of  reform ;  and  he  seemed  as  if  shunned  by  every 
one.     Plis  high  spirit,  however,  though  it  felt  neglect,  could 


248  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

support  him  under  it.     He  was  a  keen  satirist,  too,  like 
almost  all  men  of  talent,  who,  thinking  and  feeling  more 
correctly  than  they  live,  wreak  on  their  neighbors  the  un- 
happiness  of  their  own  remorse  ;  and  he  could  thus  neu- 
tralize the  bitterness  of  his  feelings  by  the  bitterness  of  his 
thoughts.     But  with  every  such  help  one  cannot  wholly 
dispense  with  the  respect  of  others,  unless  one  be  possessed 
of  one's  own;  and  when  a  lady  of  the  place,  who  on  one 
occasion  saw  and  pitied  his  chagrin,  invited  him  to  pass 
an  evening  at  her  house  with  a  small  party  of  friends,  the 
feeling  awakened  by  her  kindness  served  to  convince  him 
that  he  was  less  indifferent  than  he  could  have  wished  to 
the  coldness  of  the  others.     His  spirits  rose  in  the  company 
to  which  he  was  thus  introduced  ;  he  exerted  his  powers  of 
pleasing,  —  and  they  were  of  no  ordinary  description,  for, 
to  an  imagination  of  much  liveliness,  he  added  warm  feel- 
ings and  an  exquisite  taste,  —  and,  on  rising  to  take  his 
leave  for  the  evening,  his  hostess,  whose  interest  in  him  was 
heightened  by  pity,  and  whose  years  and  character  secured 
her  from  the  fear  of  having  her   motives  misconstrued, 
kindly  urged  him  to  repeat  his  visit  every  time  he  thought 
he  could  not  better  employ  himself,  or  when  he  found  it 
irksome  or  dangerous  to  be  alone.     And  her  invitation  was 
accepted  in  the  spirit  in  which  it  was  given. 

She  soon  became  acquainted  with  his  story.  He  had 
lost  his  mother  when  very  young,  and  had  been  bred  up 
under  the  care  of  an  elder  brother,  with  an  eye  to  the 
church;  but  his  inclinations  interfering  as  he  grew  up,  the 
destination  was  altered,  and  he  applied  himself  to  the 
study  of  medicine.  He  had  passed  through  college  in  a 
way  creditable  to  his  talents,  and  on  quitting  it  he  seemed 
admirably  fitted  to  rise  in  the  profession  which  he  had 
made  choice  of;  for,  to  very  superior  acquirements,  and 


THE    YOUNG    SURGEON.  249 

much  readiness  of  resource,  he  added  a  pleasing  address 
and  a  soft,  winning  manner.  There  seemed,  however,  to 
be  something  of  a  neutralizing  quality  in  the  moral  con- 
stitution of  the  man.  He  was  honest,  and  high-spirited, 
and  ready  to  oblige  ;  but  there  was  a  morbid  restlessness 
in  his  feelinos  which,  languishing:  after  excitement  as  its 
proper  element,  rendered  him  too  indifferent  to  those  or- 
dinary concerns  of  life  which  seem  so  tame  and  little  when 
regarded  singly,  but  which  prove  of  such  mighty  impor- 
tance in  the  aggregate.  There  was,  besides,  an  unhappy 
egotism  in  the  character,  which  led  him  to  regard  himself 
as  extraordinary,  the  circumstances  in  which  he  was  placed 
as  common,  and  therefore  unsuited,  and  which,  instead  of 
exciting;  him  to  the  course  of  legitimate  exertion  through 
which  men  of  talent  rise  to  their  proper  sphere,  spent  itself 
in  making  out  ingenious  cases  of  sorrow  and  apologies  for 
unhappiness,  from  very  ordinary  events,  and  a  condition 
of  life  in  which  thousands  attain  to  contentment.  One 
might  almost  suppose  that  that  sense  of  the  ludicrous  — 
bestowed  on  the  species  undoubtedly  for  wise  ends  — 
which  finds  its  proper  vocation  in  detecting  and  exposing 
incongruities  of  this  kind,  could  not  be  better  employed 
than  in  setting  such  a  man  light.  It  would  have  failed  in 
its  object,  however;  and  certain  it  is,  that  geniuses  of  the 
very  first  order,  who  could  have  rendered  us  back  our  rid- 
icule with  fearful  interest,  have  been  of  nearly  the  same 
disposition  with  the  poor  surgeon,  —  creatures  made  up  of 
idiosyncrasies  and  eccentricities.  A  similar  turn  was  at- 
tended with  unhappiness  in  Byron  and  Rousseau  ;  and 
such  is  the  power  of  true  genius  over  the  public  mind, 
however  fantastic  its  vagaries,  that  they  had  all  Europe  to 
sympathize  with  them. 

The  poor  surgeon  experienced  no  such  sympathy.     The 


250  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

circumstances,  too,  in  which  he  had  been  reared  were  well- 
nigh  as  unfavorable  as  his  disposition  ;  nor  had  they  at  all 
improved  as  he  grew  up.  The  love  of  a  mother  might  have 
nursed  the  feelings  of  so  delicate  a  mind,  and  fitted  them 
for  the  world ;  for,  as  in  dispositions  of  a  romantic  cast 
the  affections  are  apt  to  wander  after  the  unreal  and  the 
illusive,  and  to  become  chilled  and  crippled  in  the  pursuit, 
it  is  well  that  they  should  be  prepared  for  resting  on  real 
objects  by  the  thousand  kindlinesses  of  this  first  felt  and 
tenderest  relation.  But  his  mother  he  had  lost  in  infancy. 
His  brother,  though  substantially  kind,  had  a  way  of  saying 
bitter  things, — not  unprovoked,  perhaps,  —  which,  once 
heard,  were  never  forgotten.  He  was  now  living  among 
strangers,  —  who,  to  a  man  of  his  temper,  were  likely  to 
remain  such,  —  without  friends  or  patron,  and  apparently 
out  of  the  reach  of  promotion.  And,  to  sum  up  the  whole, 
he  was  a  tender  and  elegant  poet,  for  he  had  become  skil- 
ful in  the  uncommunicable  art,  and  had  learned  to  give 
body  to  his  emotions  and  color  to  his  thoughts ;  but, 
though  exquisitely  alive  to  the  sweets  of  fame,  he  was  of 
all  poets  the  most  obscure  and  nameless.  With  a  disposi- 
tion so  unfortunate  in  its  peculiarities,  with  a  groundwork, 
too,  of  strong  animal  passion  in  the  character,  he  strove  to 
escape  from  himself  by  means  revolting  to  his  better  na- 
ture, and  which  ultimately  more  than  doubled  his  unhap- 
piness.  To  a  too  active  dislike  of  his  brother  men,  —  for 
he  was  infinitely  more  successful  in  finding  enemies  than 
friends,  —  there  was  now  added  a  sickening  disgust  of  him- 
self. Habit  produced  its  usual  effects ;  and  he  found  he 
had  raised  to  his  assistance  a  demon  which  he  could  not 
lay,  and  which  threatened  to  destroy  him. 

We  insert  a  finished  little  poem,  the  composition  of  this 
stage,  in  which  he  portrays  his  feelings,  and  which  may 


THE   YOUNG   SURGEON.  251 

serve  to   show,  were  any  such   proof  needed,  that  gross 
habits  and  an  elegant  taste  are  by  no  means  incompatible. 

Fain  would  I  seek  in  scenes  more  gay 

That  pleasure  others  find, 
And  strive  to  drown  in  revelry 

The  anguish  of  the  mind. 

But  still,  where'er  I  go,  I  bear 

The  marks  of  inward  pain; 
The  lines  of  misery  and  care 

Are  written  in  my  brain. 

I  cannot  raise  the  cheerful  song, 

Nor  frolic  with  the  free, 
Nor  mingle  in  the  dance  among 

The  sons  of  mirth  and  glee. 

For  there's  a  spell  upon  my  soul, 

A  secret  anguish  there, 
A  grief  which  I  cannot  control, 

A  deep,  corroding  care. 

And  do  not  ask  me  why  I  sigh,  — 

Draw  not  the  veil  aside; 
Though  dark,  'tis  fairer  to  the  eye 

Than  that  which  it  would  hide. 

The  downward  progress  of  the  young  surgeon,  ere  it  re- 
ceived the  ultimate  check  which  restored  him  to  more  than 
the  vantage-ground  of  his  earliest  years,  was  partially  ar- 
rested by  a  circumstance  more  efficient  in  suspending  the 
influence  of  the  grosser  habits  than  any  other  which  occurs 
in  the  ordinary  course  of  things.  When  in  some  of  the 
southern  ports  of  England,  he  had  formed  an  attachment 
for  a  young  and  beautiful  lady,  of  great  delicacy  of  senti- 
ment and  a  highly  cultivated  mind,  and  succeeded  in  in- 
spiring her  with  a  corresponding  regard.  Who  is  not  ac- 
quainted with  Dryden's  story  of  Cymon  ?     It  may  be  a 


252  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

harder  matter,  indeed,  to  unfix  deeply-rooted  habits  than 
merely  to  polish  the  manners ;  but  we  are  the  creatures  of 
motive  ;  and  there  is  no  appetite,  however  unconquerable 
it  may  appear  when  opposed  by  only  the  dictates  of  judg- 
ment or  conscience,  but  what  yields  to  the  influence  of  a 
passion  more  powerful  than  itself.  To  the  young  surgeon 
his  attachment  for  this  lady  proved  for  a  time  the  guiding 
motive  and  the  governing  passion;  the  effect  was  a  tem- 
porary reform,  a  kind  of  minor  conversion,  which,  though 
the  work  of  no  undying  spirit,  seemed  to  renovate  his 
whole  moral  nature;  and  had  he  resided  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  his  lady-love,  it  is  probable  that,  during  at  least  the 
term  of  his  courtship,  all  his  grosser  appetites  would  have 
slept.  But  absence,  though  it  rather  strengthens  than 
diminishes  a  true  attachment,  frequently  lessons  its  moral 
efficiency,  by  forming,  as  it  were,  a  craving  void  in  the 
heart  which  old  habits  are  usually  called  upon  to  fill. 
The  philospher  of  Rosseau  solaced  himself  with  his  bottle 
when  absent  from  his  mistress ;  the  poor  fellow  whose  story 
I  attempt  to  relate  returned  in  a  similar  way  to  most  of 
his  earlier  indulgences  when  separated  from  his.  And  yet 
never  was  there  lover  more  thoroughly  attached,  or  whose 
affection  had  less  of  earth  in  it.  His  love  seemed  rather 
an  abstraction  of  the  poet  than  based  on  the  passions  of 
the  man  ;  and,  colored  by  the  taste  and  delicacy  of  his  intel- 
lectual nature,  it  might  be  conceived  of  as  a  sort  of  religion 
exquisitely  fervent  in  its  worship,  and  abounding  in  gor- 
geous visions,  the  phantoms  of  a  vigorous  fancy,  conjured 
up  by  a  too  credulous  hope.  Nor  did  it  lack  its  dedicatory 
inscriptions  or  its  hymns.  Almost  the  only  cheerful  verses 
he  ever  wrote  were  his  love  ones  ;  the  others  were  filled 
with  a  kind  of  metaphysical  grief — shall  we  call  it?  — 
common  to  our  literature  since  the  days  of  Byron  and 


THE    YOUNG    SURGEON.  253 

Shelley,  but  which  seems  to  have  been  unknown  to  either 
Burns  or  Shakspeare.  The  surgeon,  however,  was  no  mere 
imitator  —  no  mere  copyist  of  unfelt  and  impossible  sor- 
row. His  pieces,  like  all  the  productions  of  the  school  to 
which  they  belonged,  included  nearly  the  usual  amount  of 
false  thought  and  sentiment ;  but  the  feeling  which  had  dic- 
tated them  was  not  a  false  one.  Had  he  lived  better,  he 
would  have  written  more  cheerfully.  It  is  with  the  mind 
often  as  with  the  body.  It  is  not  always  in  the  main  seat 
of  disease  that  the  symptoms  proper  to  the  disease  are  ex- 
hibited ;  nor  does  it  need  any  very  extensive  acquaintance 
with  our  nature  to  know  that  real  remorse  often  forms  the 
groundwork  of  an  apparently  fictitious  sorrow. 

Another  poem,  of  somewhat  the  same  stamp  as  the  for- 
mer, we  may  insert  here.  It  is  in  the  handwriting  of  the 
young  surgeon,  among  a  collection  of  his  pieces,  but  is 
marked  "Anonymous."  We  have  never  met  with  it  else- 
where ;  and  as  it  bears  upon  it  the  impress  of  this  singu- 
lar young  man's  mind,  and  is  powerfully  expressive  of  the 
gloom  in  which  he  loved  to  enshroud  himself,  and  of  the 
deep  bitterness  which  is  the  only  legitimate  fruit  of  a  life 
of  sinful  pleasure,  we  may  shrewdly  guess  that  it  can  be 
the  production  of  no  one  else.     It  is  entitled 

THE   MOURNER. 

I  do  not  sigh 
That  I  catch  not  the  glance  of  woman's  eye: 
I  am  weary  of  woman.     I  know  too  well 
How  the  pleasant  smiles  of  the  love-merchant  sell 
To  waste  one  serious  thought  on  her, 
Though  I've  been,  like  others,  a  worshipper. 
I  do  not  sijjh  for  the  silken  creature; 
The  tinge  of  good  in  her  milky  blood 
Marks  not  her  worth,  but  her  feebler  nature. 
22 


254  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

I  do  not  pine 
That  the  treasures  of  India  are  not  mine : 
I  have  feasted  on  all  that  gold  could  buy, 
I  have  drained  the  fount  men  call  pleasure  dry, 
And  I  feel  the  after  scorch  of  pain 
On  a  lip  that  would  not  drink  again. 
Oh !  wealth  on  me  were  only  wasted; 
I  am  far  above  the  usurer's  love. 
And  all  other  love  on  earth  I've  tasted. 

I  do  not  weep 
That  apart  from  the  noble  my  walk  I  keep; 
That  the  name  I  bear  shall  never  be  set 
'Mid  the  gems  of  Fame's  sparkling  coronet; 
That  I  shall  slink,  with  the  meanest  clay, 
To  a  hasty  grave  as  mean  as  they. 
Oh!  the  choice  of  a  sepulchre  does  not  grieve  me: 
I  have  that  within  a  name  might  win 
And  a  tomb,  if  such  things  could  deceive  me. 

I  do  not  groan 
That  I  life's  poison-plant  have  known; 
That  in  my  spirit's  drunkenness 
I  ate  of  its  fruit  of  bitterness, 
Nor  knew,  until  it  Avas  too  late, 
The  ills  that  on  such  banquet  wait. 
'Tis  not  for  this  I  cherish  sadness  : 
I've  taught  my  heart  to  endure  the  smart 
Produced  by  my  youth's  madness. 

But  I  do  sigh, 
And  deeply,  darkly  pine,  weep,  groan,  —  and  why? 
Because  with  unclouded  eye  I  see 
Each  turn  in  human  destiny, 
The  knowledge  of  which  will  not  depart, 
But  lingers  and  rankles  in  my  heart; 
Because  it  is  my  chance  to  know 
That  good  and  ill,  that  weal  and  woe, 
Are  words  that  Nothing  mean  below; 
Because  all  earth  can't  buy  a  morrow, 
Or  draw  from  breath,  or  the  vital  breath, 
Aught  but  uncertainty  and  sorrow. 


THE   YOUNG    SURGEON.  255 

This  strange  poem  he  read  to  his  elderly  friend,  with  the 
evident  purpose  of  eliciting  some  criticism.  While  admit- 
ting its  power,  she  protested  against  its  false  philosophy,  — 
the  result  of  a  distorted  vision,  in  its  turn  the  result  of 
a  perverted  life.  By  way  of  attempting  to  strike  out  a 
healthier  vein  of  sentiment,  she  begged  him  to  furnish  her 
with  an  answer.  With  this  request  he  complied  ;  but  the 
production,  although  with  glimpses  of  true  poetry,  and  with 
the  same  power  over  rhythm,  has,  as  might  be  expected, 
the  air  of  something  made  to  order.     It  is  as  follows  :  — 

ANSWER   TO   THE   MOURNER. 

I  daily  sigh 
That  I  meet  not  the  glance  of  my  lady's  eye. 
I  am  weary  of  absence :  I  know  too  well 
How  lonely  and  tiresome  the  dull  hours  tell 
Not  to  wish  every  moment  to  be  with  her 
Of  whom  I  have  long  been  the  worshipper. 
Oh,  how  I  long  for  the  lovely  creature! 
The  olive-bud,  at  the  general  Flood, 
To  the  patriarch  sailor  was  not  sweeter. 

I  often  pine 
That  the  gifts  of  fortune  are  not  mine, 
Yet  covet  not  wealth  from  the  wish  to  taste 
The  enervating  sweets  of  thoughtless  waste. 
The  slave  of  pleasure  I  scorn  to  be, 
And  the  usurer's  love  has  no  charms  for  me. 
I  wish  but  an  easy  competence, 
With  a  pound  to  lend  to  an  needy  friend, 
But  I  care  not  for  splendid  affluence. 

I  sometimes  weep 
That  I  with  the  lowly  my  walk  must  keep: 
I  would  that  my  humble  name  were  set 
In  the  centre  of  Fame's  bright  coronet; 
That  my  tomb  might  be  decked  with  a  gorgeous  stone, 


256  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

And  the  tears  of  the  virtuous  shed  thereon. 
Oh !  the  thoughts  of  death  should  never  grieve  me, 
Could  I  stamp  my  name  with  a  spotless  fame, 
And  a  garland  of  deathless  roses  weave  me. 

I  deeply  groan 
When  I  think  on  the  follies  my  youth  has  known,  — 
When  the  still  small  voice  of  conscience  brings 
Before  me  the  memory  of  bygone  things, 
And  its  softest  whisper  appalls  me  more 
Than  the  earthquake's  crash  or  the  thunder's  roar; 
And  my  sorrow  is  deeper,  because  I  know 
That  neither  from  chance  nor  from  ignorance, 
But  with  open  eyes,  I  have  wandered  so. 

I  murmur  not 
That  the  volume  of  fate  to  man  is  shut,  — 
That  he  is  forbidden  with  daring  eye 
Into  its  mysteries  to  pry. 
Content  with  the  knowledge  God  has  given, 
I  seek  not  to  fathom  the  plans  of  heaven ; 
I  believe  that  good  may  be  found  below, 
And  that  evil  is  tasted,  alas !  I  know; 
Yet  I  trust  there's  a  balm  for  every  woe,  — 
That  the  saddest  night  will  have  a  morrow; 
And  I  hope  through  faith  to  live  after  death, 
In  a  world  that  knows  nor  sin  nor  sorrow. 


The  truest  answer  to  the  mourner  was,  however,  yet  to 
come. 

It  is  not  the  least  faulty  among  men  that  are  most  suc- 
cessful in  interesting  us  in  their  welfare.  A  ruin  often 
awakens  deeper  emotions  than  the  edifice,  however  noble, 
could  have  elicited  when  entire  ;  and  there  is  something  in 
a  broken  and  ruined  character,  if  we  can  trace  in  it  the 
lineaments  of  original  beauty  and  power,  that  inspires  us 
with  similar  feelings.  The  friend  of  the  young  surgeon 
felt  thus.    He  was  in  truth  a  goodly  ruin,  in  which  she  saw 


THE   YOUNG   SURGEON.  257 

much  to  admire  and  much  to  regret ;  and,  impressed  by  a 
serious  and  long-cherished  belief  in  the  restorative  efficacy 
of  religion,  her  pity  for  him  was  not  unmixed  with  hope. 
She  had  treated  him  on  every  occasion  with  the  kindness 
of  a  mother  ;  and  now,  with  the  affection  and  freedom 
proper  to  the  character,  she  pressed  on  his  consideration 
the  important  truths  which  she  knew  concerned  him  most 
deeply.  He  listened  with  a  submissive  and  respectful  at- 
tention, —  the  effect,  doubtless,  of  those  feelings  with  which 
he  must  have  regarded  one  so  disinterestedly  his  friend  ; 
for  the  subject  could  not  have  been  introduced  to  his  notice 
under  circumstances  more  favorable.  The  sense  of  obliga- 
tion had  softened  his  heart ;  the  respectful  deference  which 
he  naturally  paid  to  the  sex  and  character  of  his  friend 
prepared  him  rather  to  receive  than  to  challenge  the  truths 
which  she  urged  on  his  acceptance  ;  the  conviction  that  a 
heartfelt  interest  in  his  welfare  furnished  her  only  motive, 
checked  that  noiseless  though  fatal  under-current  of  objec- 
tion which  can  defeat  in  so  many  cases  an  end  incontrovert- 
ibly  good,  by  fixing  on  it  the  imputation  of  sinister  design  ; 
and,  above  all,  there  was  a  plain  earnestness  in  her  manner, 
the  result  of  a  deep-seated  belief,  which,  disdaining  the 
niceties  of  metaphysical  speculation,  spoke  more  powerfully 
to  his  conscience  than  it  could  have  done  had  it  armed 
itself  with  half  the  arguments  of  the  schools.  Rarely  does 
mere  argument  bring  conviction  to  an  ingenious  mind,  fer- 
tile in  doubts  and  objections.  Conscience  sleeps  when  the 
rationative  faculty  contends  for  victory,  —  a  thing  it  is 
seldom  indifferent  to  ;  and  a  few  perhaps  ingenious  sophisms 
prove  the  only  fruits  of  the  contest. 

The  little  vessel  lay  in ,  as  I  have  said,  for  about  two 

months,  when  she  received  orders  to  sail  for  the  south  of 
England.     A  storm  arose,  and  she  was  forced  by  stress  of 
22* 


258  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

weather  into  Aberdeen.  From  this  place  the  surgeon  first 
wrote  to  his  friend.  His  epistolary  style,  like  his  poetry, 
was  characterized  by  an  easy  elegance ;  and  there  was  no 
incident  which  he  related,  however  trifling  in  itself,  which 
did  not  borrow  some  degree  of  interest  from  his  pen.  He 
relates,  in  one  of  his  earlier  letters,  that,  in  a  solitary  ramble 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Aberdeen,  he  came  to  a  pictur- 
esque little  bridge  on  the  river  Don.  He  had  rarely  seen 
a  prettier  spot.  There  were  rocks  and  trees,  and  a  deep, 
dark  stream;  and  he  stood  admiring  it  till  there  passed  a 
poor  old  beggar,  of  whom  he  inquired  the  name  of  the 
bridge.  "  It  is  called,"  said  the  mendicant,  "  the  brig  of 
Don  ;  but  in  my  young  days  it  was  better  known  as  the 
brig  of  Balgownie ;  and  if  you  be  a  Scotchman  perhaps 
you  have  heard  of  it,  for  there  are  many  prophecies  about 
it  by  Thomas  the  Rhymer."  "  Ah,"  exclaimed  the  surgeon, 
"  '  Balgownie  brig's  black  wa  ! '  And  so  I  have  been  ad- 
miring, for  its  own  sake,  the  far-famed  scene  of  Byron's 
boyhood.  I  cannot  tell  you,"  he  adds,  "  what  I  felt  on  the 
occasion.  It  was  perhaps  lucky  for  me  that  I  had  not 
much  money  in  my  pocket,  but  the  little  that  I  had  made 
the  old  man  happy." 

Our  story  hastens  abruptly  to  its  conclusion.  During 
the  following  winter  and  the  early  part  of  spring,  the  little 
tender  was  employed  in  cruising  in  the  English  Channel 
and  the  neighborhood  of  Jersey  ;  and  from  the  latter  place 
most  of  the  surgeon's  letters  to  his  friends  were  addressed. 
They  relate  the  progress  of  an  interesting  and  highly-im- 
portant change  in  a  mind  of  no  ordinary  character.  There 
was  an  alteration  effected  in  the  very  tone  of  his  intellect ; 
it  seemed,  if  I  may  so  express  myself,  as  if  strung  less 
sharply  than  before,  and  more  in  accordance  with  the  real- 
ities of  life.     Even  his  love  appeared  as  if  changed  into  a 


THE   YOUNG   SURGEON.  259 

less  romantic  but  tenderer  passion,  that  sought  the  wel- 
fare of  its  object  even  more  than  the  object  itself.  But  it 
was  in  his  moral  nature  —  in  "those  sentiments  of  the  man 
which  look  forward  and.  upward  —  that  the  metamorpho- 
sis seemed  most  complete.  When  a  powerful  mind  first 
becomes  the  subject  of  serious  impressions,  there  is  some- 
thing in  Christianity  suited  to  take  it  by  surprise.  When 
viewed  at  a  distance,  and  with  that  slight  degree  of  atten- 
tion which  the  great  bulk  of  mankind  are  contented  to 
bestow  on  that  religion  which  God  revealed,  there  seems  a 
complex  obscurity  in  its  peculiar  doctrines  which  contrasts 
strongly  with  the  simplicity  of  its  morals.  It  seems  to  lie 
as  unconformably  (if  we  may  employ  the  metaphor)  as 
some  of  the  deductions  of  the  higher  sciences  to  what  is 
termed  the  common  sense  of  mankind.  It  seems  at  first 
sight,  for  instance,  no  very  rational  inference  that  the 
whiteness  of  light  is  the  effect  of  a  harmonious  mixture  of 
color,  or  that  the  earth  is  confined  to  its  orbit  by  the  op- 
erations of  the  same  law  which  impels  a  falling  pebble 
towards  the  ground.  And  to  the  careless,  because  uninter- 
ested observer,  such  doctrines  as  the  doctrine  of  the  fall 
and  the  atonement  appear  rational  in  as  slight  a  degree. 
But  when  Deity  himself  interposes,  when  the  heart  is  seri- 
ously affected,  when  the  divine  law  holds  up  its  mirror 
to  the  conscience,  and  we  begin  to  examine  the  pecu- 
liar doctrines  in  a  clearer  light  and  from  a  nearer  point  of 
observation,  they  at  once  seem  to  change  their  charac- 
ter,—  to  assume  so  stupendous  a  massiveness  of  aspect,  to 
discover  a  profundity  so  far  beyond  every  depth  of  a 
merely  human  philosophy,  to  appear  so  wonderfully  fit- 
ted to  the  nature  and  to  the  wants  of  man,  that  we  are 
at  once  convinced  their  author  can  be  no  other  than 
the    adorable   Being  who  gave    light  and   gravitation    to 


260  TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

the  universe  which  he  willed  to  exist.  The  young  sur- 
geon had  a  mind  capacious  enough  to  be  impressed  by  this 
feeling  of  surprise.  He  began  to  see,  and  to  wonder  he 
had  missed  seeing  it,  before,  that  Christianity  is  in  keep- 
ing, if  Ave  may  so  speak,  with  the  other  productions  of  its 
Author;  that  to  a  creature  solely  influenced  by  motive,  no 
moral  code,  however  perfect,  can  be  efficient  in  directing 
or  restraining,  except  through  its  connection  with  some 
heart-influencing  belief;  that  it  is  essential  to  his  nature 
as  man  that  he  meet  with  a  corresponding  nature  in  Deity, 
a  human  nature  like  his  own,  and  that  he  must  be  con- 
scious of  owing  to  Him  more  than  either  his  first  origin 
or  his  subsequent  support,  or  any  of  the  minor  gifts  which 
he  shares  in  common  with  the  inferior  animals,  and  which 
cost  the  Giver  a  less  price  than  was  paid  on  Calvary.  It 
is  unnecessary  to  expatiate  on  the  new  or  altered  feelings 
which  accompanied  the  change,  or  to  record  the  process 
of  a  state  of  mind  described  by  so  many.  The  surgeon,  in 
his  last  letter  to  his  friend,  dwelt  on  these  with  an  earnest, 
yet  half-bashful  delight,  that,  while  it  showed  how  much 
they  engrossed  him,  showed  also  how  new  it  was  to  him 
either  to  experience  or  describe  them. 

The  next  she  received  regarding  him  recorded  his  death. 
It  was  written  at  his  dying  request  by  a  clergyman  of  Jer- 
sey. He  had  passed  a  day,  early  in  April,  in  the  cabin 
of  the  little  vessel,  engaged  with  his  books  and  his  pen  ; 
towards  evening  he  went  on  deck ;  and,  stepping  on  the 
quay,  missed  his  footing  and  fell  backwards.  The  spine 
sustained  a  mortal  injury  in  the  fall.  He  was  carried  by 
the  unskilful  hands  of  sailors  to  lodgings  in  the  town  of 
St.  Helier's,  a  distance  of  five  miles.  During  this  long  and 
painful  transport,  he  was,  as  he  afterwards  said,  conscious 
although  speechless,  and  aware  that,  if  he  had  been  placed 


THE   YOUNG    SURGEON.  261 

in  an  easier  position,  with  his  head  better  supported,  he 
might  have  a  chance  of  recovery.  Yet  he  never  gave  ex- 
pression to  a  single  murmur.  Besides  the  clergyman,  he 
was  fortunate  enough  to  be  assiduously  attended  by  some 
excellent  friends  whom  he  had  made  on  occasion  of  a  for- 
mer visit  of  his  vessel  to  the  same  port.  These  he  kept 
employed  in  reading  the  Scriptures  aloud  by  night  and  by 
day.  As  he  had  formerly  drunk  deeply  of  the  fount  men 
call  pleasure,  he  now  drank  insatiably  at  the  pure  Fount 
of  Inspiration.  "  It  is  necessary  to  stop,"  one  of  his  kind 
attendants  would  say  ;  "  your  fever  is  rising."  "  It  is  only," 
he  would  reply  with  a  smile,  "  the  loss  of  a  little  blood 
after  you  leave."  He  lingered  thus  for  about  four  weeks 
in  hopeless  suffering,  but  in  the  full  possession  of  all  his 
mental  faculties,  till  death  came  to  his  relief,  and  he  de- 
parted full  of  the  hope  of  a  happy  immortality.  The  last 
tie  that  bound  him  to  the  world  was  his  attachment  to  the 
lady  whose  name,  so  obscurely  recorded,  has  introduced 
his  story  to  the  reader.  But  as  death  neared,  and  the 
world  receded,  he  became  reconciled  t©  the  necessity  of 
parting  from  even  her^  His  las)  request  to  the  clergyman 
who  attended  him  was,  that,  after  his  decease,  he  should 

write  to  his  friend  in ,  and  say,  "  that  if,  as  he  trusted, 

he  entered,  a  sinner  saved,  into  glory,  he  would  have  to 
bless  her,  as  being,  under  God,  the  honored  instrument  of 
mercy." 


VIII. 

GEORGE  ROSS,  THE  SCOTCH  AGENT. 

CHAPTER  I. 


Men  resemble  the  gods  in  nothing  so  much  as  in  doing  good  to 
their  fellow-creatures.  —  Cicero. 


In  the  letter  in  which  Junius  accuses  the  Duke  of  Grafton 
of  having  sold  a  patent-place  in  the  collection  of  customs 
to  one  Mr.  Hine,  he  informs  the  reader  that  the  person 
employed  by  his  grace  in  negotiating  the  business  "  was 
George  Ross,  the  Scotch  Agent,  and  worthy  confidant  of 
Lord  Mansfield.  And  no  sale  by  the  candle,"  he  adds, 
"  was  ever  conducted  with  greater  formality."  Now,  slight 
as  this  notice  is,  there  is  something  in  it  sufficiently  tangi- 
ble for  the  imagination  to  lay  hold  of.  If  the  reader  thinks 
of  the  Scotch  Agent  at  all,  he  probably  thinks  of  him  as 
one  of  those  convenient  creatures  so  necessary  to  the  prac- 
tical statesman,  whose  merit  does  not  consist  more  in  their 
being  ingenious  in  a  great  degree,  than  in  their  being 
honest  in  a  very  small  one.  So  mixed  a  thing  is  poor  hu- 
man nature,  however,  that,  though  the  statement  of  Junius 
has  never  yet  been  fairly  controverted,  no  possible  esti- 
mate of  character  could   be  more   unjust.     The    Scotch 


GEORGE   ROSS,   THE   SCOTCH   AGENT.  263 


Agent,  whatever  the  nature  of  his  services  to  the  Duke  of 
Grafton,  was  in  reality  a  high-minded,  and,  what  is  more, 
a  truly  patriotic  man  ;  so  good  a  person,  indeed,  that,  in 
a  period  of  political  heats  and  animosities,  his  story,  fairly 
told,  might  teach  us  a  lesson  of  charity  and  moderation. 
I  wish  I  could  transport  the  reader  to  where  his  portrait 
hangs,  side  by  side  with  that  of  his  friend  the  Lord  Chief 
Justice,  in  the  drawing-room  of  Cromarty  House.  The  air 
of  dignified  benevolence  impressed  on  the  features  of  the 
handsome  old  man,  with  his  gray  hair  curling  round  his 
temples,  would  secure  a  fair  hearing  for  him  from  even  the 
sturdiest  of  the  class  who  hate  their  neighbors  for  the  good 
of  their  country.  Besides,  the  very  presence  of  the  noble- 
looking  lawyer,  so  much  more  like  the  Murray  eulogized 
by  Pope  and  Lyttleton  than  the  Mansfield  denounced  by 
Junius,  would  of  itself  serve  as  a  sort  of  guarantee  for  the 
honor  of  his  friend. 

George  Ross  was  the  son  of  a  petty  proprietor  of  Easter- 
Ross,  and  succeeded,  on  the  death  of  his  father,  to  the 
few  barren  acres  on  which,  for  a  century  or  two  before, 
the  family  had  been  ingenious  enough  to  live.  But  he 
possessed,  besides,  what  was  more  valuable  than  twenty 
such  patrimonies,  an  untiring  energy  of  disposition,  based 
on  a  substratum  of  the  soundest  good  sense  ;  and,  what 
was  scarcely  less  important  than  either,  ambition  enough 
to  turn  his  capacity  of  employment  to  the  best  account. 
Ross-shire  a  century  ago  was  no  place  for  such  a  man  ;  and 
as  the  only  road  to  preferment  at  this  period  was  the  road 
that  led  south,  George  Ross,  when  very  young,  left  his 
mother's  cottage  for  England,  where  he  spent  nearly  fifty 
years  amongst  statesmen  and  courtiers,  and  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  the  friendship  of  such  men  as  President  Forbes 
and  Lord  Mansfield.    At  length  he  returned,  when  an  old, 


264  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

gray-headed  man,  to  rank  among  the  greatest  capitalists 
and  proprietors  of  the  county,  and  purchased,  with  other 
lesser  properties  in  the  neighborhood,  the  whole  estate  of 
Cromarty.  Perhaps  he  had  come  to  rest  him  ere  he  died. 
But  there  seems  to  be  no  such  thing  as  changing  one's  nat- 
ural bent,  when  confirmed  by  the  habits  of  half  a  lifetime; 
and  the  energies  of  the  Scotch  Agent,  now  that  they  had 
gained  him  fortune  and  influence,  were  as  little  disposed  to 
foil  asleep  as  they  had  been  forty  years  before.  As  it  was 
no  longer  necessary,  however,  that  they  should  be  em- 
ployed on  his  own  account,  he  gave  them  full  scope  in 
behalf  of  his  poorer  neighbors.  The  country  around  him 
lay  dead.  There  were  no  manufactoi-ies,  no  trade,  no 
knowledge  of  agriculture,  no  consciousness  that  matters 
were  ill,  and,  consequently,  no  desire  of  making  them  bet- 
ter; and  the  herculean  task  imposed  upon  himself  by  the 
Scotch  Agent,  now  considerably  turned  of  sixty,  was  to 
animate  and  revolutionize  the  whole.  And  such  was  his 
statesman-like  sagacity  in  developing  the  hitherto  undis- 
covered resources  of  the  country,  joined  to  a  high-minded 
zeal  that  could  sow  liberally  in  the  hope  of  a  late  harvest 
for  others  to  reap,  that  he  fully  succeeded. 

He  first  established  in  the  town  an  extensive  manufac- 
tory of  hempen  cloth,  which  has  ever  since  employed  about 
two  hundred  persons  within  its  walls,  and  fully  twice  that 
number  without.  He  next  built  an  ale  brewery,  which,  at 
the  time  of  its  erection,  was  by  far  the  largest  in  the  north 
of  Scotland.  He  then  furnished  the  town,  at  a  great  ex- 
pense, with  an  excellent  harbor,  and  set  on  foot  a  trade 
in  pork  which  for  the  last  thirty  years  has  been  carried 
on  by  the  people  of  the  place  to  an  extent  of  from  about 
fifteen  to  twenty  thousand  pounds  annually.  He  set  him- 
self, too,  to  initiate  his  tenantry  in  the  art  of  rearing  wheat ; 


GEORGE    ROSS,   THE    SCOTCH    AGENT.  265 

and  finding  them  wofully  unwilling  to  become  wiser  on  the 
subject,  he  tried  the  force  of  example,  by  taking  an  ex- 
tensive farm  under  his  own  management  and  conducting 
it  on  the  most  approved  principles  of  modern  agriculture. 
He  established  a  nail  and  spade  manufactory  ;  brought 
women  from  England  to  instruct  the  young  girls  in  the  art 
of  working  lace;  provided  houses  for  the  poor;  presented 
the  town  with  a  neat,  substantial  building,  the  upper  part 
of  which  serves  for  a  council-room  and  the  lower  as  a 
prison  ;  and  built  for  the  accommodation  of  the  poor  High- 
landers, who  came  thronging  into  the  town  to  work  on  his 
land  and  in  his  manufactories,  a  handsome  Gaelic  chapel. 
He  built  for  his  own  residence  an  elegant  house  of  hewn 
stone  ;  surrounded  it  with  pleasure-grounds,  designed  in 
the  best  style  of  the  art ;  planted  many  hundred  acres  of 
the  less  improvable  parts  of  his  property ;  and  laid  open 
the  hitherto  scarcely  accessible  beauties  of  the  hill  of  Cro- 
marty by  crossing  and  re-crossing  it  with  well-nigh  as  many 
walks  as  there  are  veins  in  the  human  body.  He  was 
proud  of  his  exquisite  landscapes,  and  of  his  own  skill  in 
heightening  their  beauty,  and  fully  determined,  he  said,  if 
he  but  lived  long  enough,  to  make  Cromarty  worth  an 
Englishman's  while  coming  all  the  way  from  London  to 
jee  it. 

When  Oscar  fell  asleep,  says  the  old  Irish  bard,  it  was 
impossible  to  awaken  him  before  his  time  except  by  cut- 
ting off  one  of  his  fingers  or  flinging  a  rock  at  his  head  ; 
and  woe  to  the  poor  man  who  disturbed  him  !  The  Agent 
found  it  every  whit  as  difficult  to  awaken  a  sleeping  coun- 
try, and  in  some  respects  almost  as  unsafe.  I  am  afraid 
human  nature  is  nearly  the  same  thing  in  the  people  that 
it  is  in  their  rulers,  and  that  both  are  alike  disposed  to 
prefer  the  man  who  flatters  them  to  the  man  who  merely 
23 


266  TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

fines  them  good.  George  Ross  was  by  no  means  the  most 
p<  pular  of  proprietors.  He  disturbed  old  prejudices,  and 
unfixed  old  habits.  The  farmers  thought  it  hard  that  they 
should  have  to  break  up  their  irregular  map-like  patches 
of  land,  divided  from  each  other  by  little  strips  and  cor- 
ners not  yet  reclaimed  from  the  waste,  into  awkward- 
looking  rectangular  fields,  and  that  they  durst  no  longer 
fasten  their  horses  to  the  plough  by  the  tail,  —  a  piece  of 
natural  harness  evidently  formed  for  the  express  purpose. 
The  townspeople  deemed  the  hempen  manufactory  un- 
wholesome; and  found  that  the  English  lace-women,  who 
to  a  certainty  were  tea-drinkers,  and  even  not  very  hostile, 
it  was  said,  to  gin,  were  in  a  fair  way  of  teaching  their 
pupils  something  more  than  the  mere  weaving  of  lace. 
What  could  be  more  heathenish,  too,  than  the  little  temple 
covered  with  cockle-shell  which  the  laird  had  just  reared 
on  a  solitary  corner  of  the  hill,  but  which  they  soon  sent 
spinning  over  the  cliff  into  the  sea,  a  downward  journey 
of  a  hundred  yards  ?  And  then  his  odious  pork  trade  ! 
There  was  no  prevailing  on  the  people  to  rear  pigs  for 
him ;  and  so  he  had  to  build  a  range  of  offices,  in  an  out- 
of-the-way  nook  of  his  lands,  which  he  stocked  with  hordes 
of  these  animals,  that  he  might  rear  them  for  himself. 
The  herds  increased  in  size  and  number,  and,  voracious 
beyond  calculation,  almost  occasioned  a  famine.  Even  the 
great  wealth  of  the  speculatist  proved  insufficient  to  sup- 
ply them  with  food,  and  the  very  keepers  were  in  danger 
of  being  eaten  alive.  The  poor  animals  seemed  departing 
from  their  very  nature ;  for  they  became  long  and  lank, 
and  bony  as  the  griffins  of  heraldry,  until  they  looked  more 
like  race-horses  than  pigs;  and  as  they  descended  with 
every  ebb  in  huge  droves  to  browse  on  the  sea-weed,  or 
\elve  for  shell-fish  among  the  pebbles,  there  was  no  lack 


GEORGE   ROSS,   THE   SCOTCH   AGENT.  267 

of  music  befitting  their  condition  when  the  large  rock-crab 
revenged  with  his  nippers  on  their  lips  the  injuries  inflicted 
on  him  with  their  teeth.  Now,  all  this  formed  a  fine  sub- 
ject for  joking  to  people  who  indulged  in  a  half-Jewish 
dislike  of  the  pig,  and  who  could  not  guess  that  the  pork 
trade  was  one  day  to  pay  the  rents  of  half  the  widows' 
cottages  in  the  country.  But  no  one  could  lie  more  open 
than  George  Ross  to  that  species  of  ridicule  which  the  men 
who  see  further  than  their  neighbors,  and  look  more  to  the 
advantage  of  others  than  to  their  own,  cannot  fail  to  en- 
counter. He  was  a  worker  in  the  dark,  and  at  no  slight 
expense  ;  for,  though  all  his  many  projects  were  ultimately 
found  to  be  benefits  conferred  on  his  country,  not  one  of 
them  proved  remunerative  to  himself.  But  he  seems  to 
have  known  mankind  too  well  to  have  expected  a  great 
deal  from  their  gratitude,  though  on  one  occasion  at  least 
his  patience  gave  way. 

The  town  in  the  course  of  years  had  so  entirely  marched 
to  the  west,  that  the  town's  cross  came  at  length  to  be 
fairly  left  behind,  with  a  hawthorn  hedge  on  the  one  side 
and  a  garden  fence  on  the  other;  and  when  the  Agent  had 
completed  the  house  which  was  to  serve  as  council-room 
and  prison  to  the  place,  the  cross  was  taken  down  from  its 
stand  of  more  than  two  centuries,  and  placed  in  front  of 
the  new  building.  That  people  might  the  better  remem- 
ber the  circumstance,  there  was  a  showy  procession  got 
up;  healths  were  drunk  beside  the  cross  in  the  Agent's 
best  wine,  and  not  a  little  of  his  best  crystal  broken  against 
it ;  and  the  evening  terminated  in  a  ball.  It  so  happened, 
however,  through  some  cross  chance,  that,  though  all  the 
gentility  of  the  place  were  to  be  invited,  three  young  men, 
who  deemed  themselves  quite  as  genteel  as  the  best  of 
their  neighbors,  were  passed  over.    The  dignified  manager 


268  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

of  the  hemp  manufactory  had  received  no  invitation,  nor 
the  clever  superintendent  of  the  nail- work,  nor  yet  the 
spruce  clerk  of  the  brewery ;  and  as  they  were  all  men  of 
spirit,  it  so  happened  that  during  the  very  next  night  the 
cross  was  taken  down  from  its  new  pedestal,  broken  into 
three  pieces,  and  carried  still  further  to  the  west,  to  an 
open  space  where  four  lanes  met;  and  there  it  was  found 
in  the  morning,  the  pieces  piled  over  each  other,  and  sur- 
rounded by  a  profusion  of  broken  ale  bottles.  The  Agent 
was  amazingly  angry,  —  angrier,  indeed,  than  his  acquaint- 
ance had  deemed  him  capable  of  becoming ;  and  in  the 
course  of  the  day  the  town's  crier  went  through  the  streets 
proclaiming  a  reward  of  ten  pounds  in  hand,  and  a  free 
room  in  Mr.  Ross's  new  buildings  for  life,  to  any  one  who 
would  give  such  information  as  might  lead  to  the  convic- 
tion of  the  offenders. 

In  one  of  his  walks  a  few  days  after,  the  Agent  met  with 
a  poor,  miserable-looking  Highland  woman,  who  had  been 
picking  a  few  withered  sticks  out  of  one  of  his  hedges, 
and  whose  hands  and  clothes  seemed  torn  by  the  thorns. 
"  Poor  old  creature,"  he  said,  as  she  dropped  her  courtesy  in 
passing,  "  you  must  go  to  my  manager,  and  tell  him  I  have 
ordered  you  a  barrel  of  coals.  And  stay,  —  you  are  hun- 
gry :  call  at  my  house,  in  passing,  and  the  servants  will  find 
you  something  to  bring  home  with  you."  The  poor  wo- 
man blessed  him,  and  looked  up  hesitatingly  in  his  face. 
She  had  never  betrayed  any  one,  she  said ;  but  his  honor 
was  so  good  a  gentleman,  —  so  very  good  a  gentleman  ; 
and  so  she  thought  she  had  best  tell  him  all  she  knew 
about  the  breaking  of  the  cross.  She  lived  in  a  little  gar- 
ret over  the  room  of  Jamie  Banks,  the  nailer ;  and  having 
slept  scarcely  any  all  the  night  in  which  the  cross  was 
taken  down,  — for  the  weather  was  bitterly  cold,  and  her 


GEORGE   ROSS,   THE   SCOTCH   AGENT.  269 


bed-clothes  very  thin,  —  she  could  hear  weighty  footsteps 
traversing  the  streets  till  near  morning,  when  the  house- 
door  opened,  and  in  came  Jamie,  with  a  tottering,  unequal 
step,  and  disturbed  the  whole  family  by  stumbling  over  a 
stool  into  his  wife's  washing-tub.  Besides,  she  had  next 
day  overheard  his  wife  rating  him  for  staying  out  to  so  un- 
timeous  an  hour,  and  his  remark,  in  reply,  that  she  would 
do  well  to  keep  quiet,  unless  she  wished  to  see  him  hanged. 
This  was  the  sort  of  clue  the  affair  required ;  and,  in  fol- 
lowing it  up,  the  unlucky  nailer  was  apprehended  and  ex- 
amined ;  but  it  was  found  that,  through  a  singular  lapse  of 
memory,  he  had  forgotten  every  circumstance  connected 
with  the  night  in  question,  except  that  he  had  been  in  the 
very  best  company,  and  one  of  the  happiest  men  in  the 
world. 

Jamie  Banks  was  decidedly  the  most  eccentric  man  of 
his  day,  in  at  least  one  parish,  —  full  of  small  wit  and 
small  roguery,  and  famous  for  a  faculty  of  invention  fertile 
enough  to  have  served  a  poet.  On  one  occasion,  when  the 
gill  of  whiskey  had  risen  to  three  halfpence  in  Cromarty, 
and  could  still  be  bought  for  a  penny  in  Avoch,  he  had 
prevailed  on  a  party  of  his  acquaintance  to  accompany  him 
to  the  latter  place,  that  they  might  drink  themselves  rich 
on  the  strength  of  the  old  proverb;  and  as  they  acta  illy 
effected  a  saving  of  two  shillings  in  spending  six,  it  was 
clear,  he  said,  that,  had  not  their  money  failed  them,  they 
would  have  made  fortunes  apiece.  Alas  for  the  littleness 
of  that  great  passion,  the  love  of  fame  !  I  have  ob- 
served that  the  tradespeople  among  whom  one  meets  with 
most  instances  of  eccentricity,  are  those  whose  shops,  being 
places  of  general  resort,  furnish  them  with  space  enough 
on  which  to  achieve  a  humble  notoriety,  by  rendering 
themselves  unlike  everybody  else.  To  secure  to  Jamie 
23* 


270  TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

Banks  due  leisure  for  recollection,  he  was  committed  to 
jail. 

He  was  sitting  one  evening  beside  the  prison  fire,  with 
one  of  his  neighbors  and  the  jailer,  and  had  risen  to  ex- 
clude the  chill  night  air  by  drawing  a  curtain  over  the 
open-barred  window  of  the  apartment,  when  a  man  sud- 
denly started  from  behind  the  wall  outside,  and  discharged 
a  large  stone  with  tremendous  force  at  his  head.  The 
missile  almost  brushed  his  ear  as  it  sung  past,  and,  re- 
bounding from  the  opposite  wall,  rolled  along  the  floor. 
"That  maun  be  Rob  Williamson,"  exclaimed  Jamie,  "want- 
ing to  keep  me  quiet.  Out,  neebor  Jonathan,  an'  after 
him."  Neebor  Jonathan,  an  active  young  fellow,  sprung  to 
the  door,  caught  the  sounds  of  retreating  footsteps  as  he 
turned  the  gate,  and,  dashing  after  like  a  greyhound,  suc- 
ceeded in  laying  hold  of  the  coat-skirts  of  Rob  William- 
son, as  he  strained  onwards  through  the  gate  of  the  hemp 
manufactory.  He  was  immediately  secured,  and  lodged 
in  another  apartment  of  the  prison;  and  in  the  morning 
Jamie  Banks  was  found  to  have  recovered  his  memory. 

He  had  finished  working,  he  said,  on  the  evening  after 
the  ball,  and  was  just  putting  on  his  coat  preparatory  to 
leaving  the  shop,  when  the  superintendent  called  him  into 
his  writing-room,  where  he  found  three  persons  sitting  at 
a  table  half  covered  with  bottles.  Rob  Williamson,  the 
weaver,  was  one  of  these ;  the  other  two  were  the  clerk  of 
the  brewery  and  the  manager  of  the  hemp  manufactory ; 
and  they  were  all  arguing  together  on  some  point  of  divin- 
ity. The  manager  cleared  a  seat  for  him  beside  himself, 
and  filled  his  glass  thrice  in  succession,  by  way  of  making 
up  for  the  time  he  had  lost.  Nothing  could  be  more  un- 
true than  that  the  manager  was  proud.  They  then  all  be- 
gan to  speak  about  morals  and  Mr.  Ross.     The  clerk  was 


GEORGE  ROSS,   THE    SCOTCH   AGENT.  271 

certain   that,  with  his   harbor,  and   his  piggery,  and   his 
heathen  temples,  and  his  lace-women,  he  would  not  leave 
a  ray  of  morality  in  the  place ;  and  Rob  was  quite  as  sure 
he  was  no  friend  to  the  gospel.     He  a  builder  of  Gaelic 
kirks,  forsooth  !     Had  he  not  yesterday  put  up  a  popish 
dagon  of  a  cross,  and  made  the  silly  mason  bodies  worship 
it  for  the  sake  o'  a  dram  ?     And  then,  how  common  ale- 
drinking  had  become  in  the  place !  —  in  his  young  days 
they   drank    nothing    but  gin, —  and   what    would    their 
grandfathers  have  said  to  a  whigmaleerie  o'  a  ball !     "  I 
sipped  and  listened,"  continued  Jamie,  "  and  thought  that 
the  time  could  not  have  been  better  spent  at  an  elders' 
•  meeting  in  the  kirk ;  and  as  the  night  wore  later  the  con- 
versation became  still  more  edifying,  until  at  length  all  the 
bottles  were  emptied,  when  we  sallied  out  in  a  body,  to 
imitate  the  old  Reformers  by  breaking  the  cross.      '  We 
may  suffer,  Jamie,  for  what  we  have  done,'  said  Rob  to  me 
as  we  parted  for  the  night ;  '  but,  remember,  it  was  duty, 
Jamie,  it  was  duty;  we  have  been  testifying  wi'  our  hands, 
an'  when  the  hour  o'  trial  comes  we  mauna  be  slow  in  tes- 
tifying wi'  our  tongues  too.'    He  wasna  slack,  the  deceitfu' 
body!"  concluded  Jamie,  "in  trying  to  stop  mine."     Ami 
thus  closed  the  evidence.     The  Agent  was  no  vindictive 
man.     He  dismissed  his  two  managers  and  the  clerk,  to 
find  for  themselves  a  more  indulgent  master;  but  the  ser- 
vices of  Jamie  Banks  he  still  retained  ;  and  the  first  em- 
ployment which  he  found  for  him  after  his  release  was  the 
fashioning  of  four  iron  bars  for  the  repair  of  the  cross. 

The  Agent,  in  the  closing  scene  of  his  life,  was  destined 
to  experience  the  unhappiness  of  blighted  hope.  He  had 
an  only  son,  a  weak  and  very  obstinate  young  man,  who, 
without  intellect  enough  to  appreciate  his  well-calculated 
schemes,  and  yet  conceit  enough  to  sit  in   judgment  on 


272  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

them,  was  ever  showing  his  spirit  by  opposing  a  sort  of 
selfish  nonsense,  that  aped  the  semblance  of  common  sense, 
to  the  expansive  and  benevolent  philosophy  of  his  father. 
But  the  old  man  bore  patiently  with  his  conceit  and  folly. 
Like  the  great  bulk  of  the  class  who  attain  to  wealth  and 
influence  through  their  own  exertions,  he  was  anxiously 
ambitious  to  live  in  his  posterity,  and  be  the  founder  of  a 
family ;  and  he  knew  it  was  quite  as  much  according  to 
the  nature  of  things  that  a  fool  might  be  the  father,  as 
that  he  should  be  the  son,  of  a  wise  man.  He  secured, 
therefore,  his  lands  to  his  posterity  by  the  law  of  entail ; 
did  all  that  education  and  example  could  do  for  the  young 
man  ;  and  succeeded  in  getting  him  married  to  a  sweet, 
amiable  English  woman,  the  daughter  of  a  bishop.  But, 
alas !  his  precautions,  and  the  hopes  in  which  he  indulged, 
proved  equally  vain.  The  young  man,  only  a  few  months 
after  his  marriage,  was  piqued,  when  at  table,  by  some  re- 
mark of  his  father  regarding  his  mode  of  carving,  —  some 
slight  allusion,  it  is  said,  to  the  maxim  that  little  men  can- 
not afford  to  neglect  little  matters, —  and  rising,  with  much 
apparent  coolness,  from  beside  his  wife,  he  stepped  into  an 
adjoining  room,  and  there  blew  out  his  brains  with  a  pistol. 
The  stain  of  his  blood  may  still  be  seen  in  two  large 
brownish-colored  blotches  on  the  floor. 

George  Ross  survived  his  son  for  several  years ;  and  he 
continued,  though  a  sadder  and  a  graver  man,  to  busy  him- 
self with  all  his  various  speculations  as  before.  It  was  ob- 
served, however,  that  he  seemed  to  care  less  than  formerly 
for  whatever  was  exclusively  his  own,  for  his  fine  house 
and  his  beautiful  lands,  and  that  he  chiefly  employed  him- 
self in  maturing  his  several  projects  for  the  good  of  his 
country-folks.  Time  at  length  began  to  set  its  seal  on  his 
labors,  by  discovering  their  value ;  though  not  until  death 


GEORGE   ROSS,   THE    SCOTCH   AGENT.  273 


had  first  affixed  his  to  the  character  of  the  wise  and  be- 
nevolent projector.  He  died  full  of  years  and  honor, 
mourned  by  the  poor,  and  regretted  by  every  one  ;  and 
even  those  who  had  opposed  his  innovations  with  the 
warmest  zeal  were  content  to  remember  him,  with  all  the 
others,  as  "  the  good  laird." 


IX. 

M'CULLOCH  THE  MECHANICIAN. 

CHAPTER  I. 

Anything  may  become  nature  to  man;  the  rare  thing  is  to  find 
a  nature  that  is  truly  natural.  —  Anon. 

In  the  "  Scots  Magazine"  for  May  1789,  there  is  a  report 
by  Captain  Philip  d'Auvergne,  of  the  Narcissus  frigate,  on 
the  practical  utility  of  Kenneth  M'Culloch's  sea-compasses. 
The  captain,  after  an  eighteen  months'  trial  of  their  merits, 
compared  with  those  of  all  the  other  kinds  in  use  at  the 
time,  describes  them  as  immensely  superior,  and  earnestly 
recommends  to  the  admiralty  their  general  introduction 
into  the  navy.  In  passing,  on  one  occasion,  through  the 
Race  of  Alderney  in  the  winter  of  1787,  there  broke  out  a 
frightful  storm  ;  and  so  violent  was  the  opposition  of  the 
wind  and  tide,  that  while  his  vessel  was  sailing  at  the  rate 
of  eleven  miles  on  the  surface,  she  was  making  scarce  any 
headway  by  the  land.  The  sea  rose  tremendously,  at 
once  short,  high,  and  irregular;  and  the  motions  of  the 
vessel  were  so  fearfully  abrupt  and  violent  that  scarce  a 
seaman  aboard  could  stand  on  deck.  At  a  time  so  critical, 
when  none  of  the  compasses  supplied  from  his  majesty's 


m'culloch  the  mechanician.  275 

stores  would  stand,  but  vacillated  more  than  three  points 
on  each  side  of  the  pole,  "  it  commanded,"  says  the  captain, 
"  the  admiration  of  the  whole  crew,  winning  the  confidence 
of  even  the  most  timorous,  to  see  how  quickly  and  readily 
M'Culloch's  steering  compass  recovered  the  vacillations 
communicated  to  it  by  the  motion  of  the  ship  and  the 
shocks  of  the  sea,  and  how  truly,  in  every  brief  interval  of 
rest,  it  pointed  to  the  pole."  It  is  further  added,  that  on 
the  captain's  recommendation  these  compasses  were  tried 
on  board  the  Andromeda,  commanded  at  the  time  by 
Prince  William  Henry,  our  late  king;  and  so  satisfied  was 
the  prince  of  the  utility  of  the  invention,  that  he,  too,  be- 
came a  strenuous  advocate  for  their  general  introduction, 
and  testified  his  regard  for  the  ingenious  inventor  by  ap- 
pointing him  his  compass-maker.  JM'Culloch,  however,  did 
not  long  survive  the  honor,  dying  a  few  years  after;  and 
we  have  been  unable  to  trace  with  any  degree  of  certainty 
the  further  history  of  his  improved  compass.  But,  though 
only  imperfectly  informed  regarding  his  various  inventions, 
—  and  they  are  said  to  have  been  many,  and  singularly 
practical, — we  are  tolerably  well  acquainted  with  the  story 
of  his  early  life ;  and,  as  it  furnishes  a  striking  illustration 
of  that  instinct  of  genius,  if  we  may  so  express  ourselves, 
which  leads  the  possessor  to  exactly  the  place  in  which  his 
services  may  be  of  most  value  to  the  community,  by  ren- 
dering him  useless  and  unhappy  in  every  other,  we  think 
we  cannot  do  better  than  communicate  it  to  the  reader. 

There  stood,  about  forty  years  ago,  on  the  northern  side 
of  the  parish  of  Cromarty,  an  old  farm-house,  —  one  of  those 
low,  long,  dark-looking  erections  of  turf  and  stone  wdiich 
still  survive  in  the  remoter  districts  of  Scotland,  as  if  to 
show  how  little  man  may  sometimes  improve,  in  even  a 
civilized  country,  on  the  first  rude  shelter  which  his  ne- 


276  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

cessities  owed  to  his  ingenuity.  A  worn-out  barrel,  fixed 
slantwise  in  the  ridge,  served  as  a  chimney  for  the  better 
apartment, —  the  spare  room  of  the  domicile, —  which  was 
furnished  also  with  a  glazed  window ;  but  the  smoke  was 
suffered  to  escape  from  the  others,  and  the  light  to  enter 
them,  as  chance  or  accident  might  direct.  The  eaves,  over- 
hung by  stonecrop  and  bunches  of  the  houseleek,  drooped 
heavily  over  the  small  blind  windows  and  low  door;  and 
a  row  of  ancient  elms,  which  rose  from  out  the  fence  of  a 
neglected  garden,  spread  their  gnarled  and  ponderous 
arms  over  the  roof.  Such  was  the  farm-house  of  Wood- 
side,  in  which  Kenneth  M'Culloch,  the  son  of  the  farmer, 
was  born,  some  time  in  the  early  half  of  the  last  century. 
The  family  from  which  he  sprang  —  a  race  of  honest,  plod- 
ding tacksmen  —  had  held  the  place  from  the  proprietor 
of  Cromarty  for  more  than  a  hundred  years ;  and  it  was 
deemed  quite  a  matter  of  course  that  Kenneth,  the  eldest 
son,  should  succeed  his  father  in  the  farm.  Never  was 
there  a  time,  in  at  least  this  part  of  the  country,  in  which 
agriculture  stood  more  in  need  of  the  services  of  original 
and  inventive  minds.  There  was  not  a  wheeled  cart  in  the 
parish,  nor  a  plough  constructed  on  the  modern  principle. 
There  was  no  changing  of  seed  to  suit  the  varieties  of  soil, 
no  green  cropping,  no  rotatory  system  of  production  ;  and 
it  seemed  as  if  the  main  object  of  the  farmer  had  been  to 
raise  the  least  possible  amount  of  grain  at  the  greatest  pos- 
sible expense  of  labor.  The  farm  of  Woodside  was  prim- 
itive enough  in  its  usages  and  modes  of  tillage  to  have 
formed  a  study  to  the  antiquary.  Towards  autumn,  when 
the  fields  vary  most  in  color,  it  resembled  a  rudely-executed 
chart  of  some  large  island,  so  irregular  were  the  patches 
which  composed  it,  and  so  broken  on  every  side  by  a  sur- 
rounding sea  of  brown,  sterile  moor,  that  here  and  there 


M'CULLOCH   THE    MECHANICIAN.  277 

went  winding  into  the  interior  in  long  river-like  strips, 
or  expanded  within  into  friths  and  lakes.  In  one  corner 
there  stood  a  heap  of  stones,  in  another  a  thicket  of  furze, 
here  a  piece  of  bog,  there  a  broken  bank  of  clay.  The 
implements,  too,  with  which  the  fields  were  labored  were 
quite  as  uncouth  in  their  appearance  as  the  fields  them- 
selves. There  was  the  single-stilted  plough,  that  did  little 
more  than  scratch  the  surface;  the  wooden-toothed  har- 
row, that  did  hardly  so  much  ;  the  cumbrous  sledge,  — no 
inconsiderable  load  of  itself,  —  for  carrying  home  the  corn 
in  harvest  ;  and  the  basket-woven  conical  cart,  with  its 
rollers  of  wood,  for  bearing  out  the  manure  in  spring. 
With  these,  too,  there  was  the  usual  misproportion  to  thu 
extent  and  produce  of  the  farm  of  lean,  inefficient  cattle, — 
four  half-starved  animals  performing  with  incredible  labor 
the  work  of  one.  And  yet,  now  that  a  singularly  inven- 
tive mind  had  come  into  existence  on  this  very  farm,  and 
though  its  attentions  had  been  directed,  as  far  as  external 
influence  could  direct  them,  on  the  various  employments 
of  the  farmer,  the  interests  of  husbandry  were  to  be  in  no 
degree  improved  by  the  circumstance.  Nature,  in  the  midst 
of  her  wisdom,  seems  to  cherish  a  dash  of  the  eccentric. 
The  ingenuity  of  the  farmer's  son  was  to  be  employed,  not 
in  facilitating  the  labors  of  the  farmer,  but  in  inventing 
binnacle-lamps  which  would  yield  an  undiminished  light 
amid  the  agitations  of  a  tempest,  and  in  constructing  mar- 
iners' compasses  on  a  new  principle.  There  are  instances 
of  a  similar  character  furnished  by  the  experience  of  almost 
every  one.  In  passing  some  years  since  over  a  dreary 
moor  in  the  interior  of  the  country,  our  curiosity  was  ex- 
cited by  a  miniature  mast,  furnished,  like  that  of  a  ship, 
with  shrouds  ami  yards,  bearing  a-top  a  gaudy  pinnet, 
which  we  saw  beside  a  little  Highland  cottage ;  and  on 
24 


278  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

inquiring  regarding  it  at  the  door,  we  were  informed  that 
it  was  the  work  of  the  cottager's  son,  a  lad  who,  though  he 
had  scarcely  ever  seen  the  sea,  had  taken  a  strange  fancy 
to  the  life  of  a  sailor,  and  who  had  left  his  father  only  a 
few  weeks  before  to  serve  aboard  a  man-of-war. 

Kenneth's  first  employment  was  the  tending  of  a  flock  of 
sheep,  the  property  of  his  father ;  and  wretchedly  did  he 
acquit  himself  of  the  charge.  The  farm  is  bounded  on  the 
eastern  side  by  a  deep,  bosky  ravine,  through  the  bottom 
of  which  a  scanty  runnel  rather  trickles  than  flows ;  and 
when  it  was  discovered  on  any  occasion  that  Kenneth's 
flock  had  been  left  to  take  care  of  themselves,  and  of  his 
father's  corn  to  boot,  —  and  such  occasions  were  wofully 
frequent,  —  Kenneth  himself  was  almost  invariably  to  be 
found  in  this  ravine.  He  would  sit  for  hours  among  the 
bushes,  engaged  with  his  knife  in  carving  uncouth  faces 
on  the  heads  of  walking-sticks,  or  in  constructing  little 
water-mills,  or  in  making  Lilliputian  pumps  of  the  dried 
stalks  of  the  larger  hemlock,  and  in  raising  the  waters  of 
the  runnel  to  basins  dug  in  the  sides  of  the  hollow.  Some- 
times he  quitted  his  charge  altogether,  and  set  out  for  a 
meal-mill  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  farm,  where 
he  would  linger  for  half  a  day  at  a  time  watching  the  mo- 
tion of  the  wheels.  His  father  complained  that  he  could 
make  nothing  of  him  ;  "  the  boy,"  he  said,  "  seemed  to 
have  nearly  as  much  sense  as  other  boys  of  his  years,  and 
yet  for  any  one  useful  purpose  he  was  nothing  better  than 
an  idiot."  His  mother,  as  is  common  with  mothers,  and 
who  was  naturally  an  easy,  kind-hearted  woman,  had  bet- 
ter hopes  of  him.  Kenneth,  she  affirmed,  was  only  a  little 
peculiar,  and  would  turn  out  well  after  all.  He  was  grow- 
ing up,  however,  without  improving  in  the  slightest ;  and 
when  he  became  tall  enough  for  the  plough,  he  made  a 


m'culloch  the  mechanician.  279 

dead  stand.  He  would  go  and  be  a  tradesman,  he  said,  a 
mason  or  smith  or  house-carpenter,  —  anything  his  friends 
chose  to  make  him,  —  but  a  farmer  he  would  not  be.  His 
father,  after  a  fruitless  struggle  to  overcome  his  obstinacy, 
carried  him  with  him  to  an  acquaintance  in  Cromarty,  an 
ingenious  cabinet-maker,  named  Donald  Sandison ;  and, 
after  candidly  confessing  that  he  was  of  no  manner  of  use 
at  home,  and  would,  he  was  afraid,  be  of  little  use  any- 
where, he  bound  him  by  indenture  to  the  mechanic  for 
four  years. 

Kenneth's  new  master  —  a  shrewd,  sagacious  man,  who 
had  been  actively  engaged,  it  was  said,  in  the  Porteous 
mob  about  twenty  years  before  —  was  one  of  the  best  work- 
men in  his  profession  in  the  north  of  Scotland.  His  scru- 
toires  and  wardrobes  were  in  repute  up  to  the  close  of  the 
last  century  ;  and  in  the  ancient  art  of  wainscot  carving  he 
had  no  equal  in  the  country.  He  was  an  intelligent  man, 
too,  as  well  as  a  superior  mechanic.  He  was  a  general 
reader,  as  a  little  old-fashioned  library  in  the  possession  of 
his  grandson  still  remains  to  testify;  and  he  had  studied 
Paladio,  in  the  antique  translation  of  Godfrey  Richards, 
and  knew  a  little  of  Euclid.  With  all  his  general  intelli- 
gence, however,  and  all  his  skill,  he  failed  to  discover  the 
latent  capabilities  of  his  apprentice.  Kennelh  was  dull 
and  absent,  and  had  no  heart  to  his  work;  and  though  he 
seemed  to  understand  the  principles  on  which  his  master's 
various  tools  were  used,  and  the  articles  of  his  trade  con- 
structed, as  well  at  least  as  any  workman  in  the  shop,  there 
were  none  among  them  who  used  the  tools  so  awkwardly, 
or  constructed  the  articles  so  ill.  An  old  botching  carpen- 
ter who  wrought  in  a  little  shop  at  the  other  end  of  the 
town  was  known  to  the  boys  of  the  place  by  the  humorous 
appellation  of  "Spull  [i.e.  spoil]  the  Wood,"  and  a  lean- 


280  TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

sided,  ill-conditioned  boat  which  he  had  built,  as  "  the 
Wilful  Murder."  Kenneth  came  to  be  regarded  as  a  sort 
of  second  "  Spull  the  Wood,"  —  as  a  fashioner  of  rickety 
tables,  ill-fitted  drawers,  and  chairs  that,  when  sat  upon, 
creaked  like  badly-tuned  organs  ;  and  the  boys,  who  were 
beginning  to  regard  him  as  fair  game,  sometimes  took  the 
liberty  of  asking  him  whether  he,  too,  was  not  going  to 
build  a  boat?  Such,  in  short,  were  his  deficiencies  as  a 
mechanic,  that  in  the  third  year  of  his  apprenticeship  his 
master  advised  his  father  to  take  him  home  with  him  and 
set  him  to  the  plough;  an  advice,  however,  on  which  the 
farmer,  warned  by  his  previous  experience,  sturdily  refused 
to  act. 

It  was  remarked  that  Kenneth  acquired  more  in  the  last 
year  of  his  apprenticeship  than  in  all  the  others.  His  skill 
as  a  workman  still  ranked  a  little  below  the  average  abil- 
ity; but  then  it  was  only  a  little  below  it.  He  seemed, 
too,  to  enjoy  more,  and  become  less  bashful  and  awkward. 
His  master  on  one  occasion  took  him  aboard  a  vessel  in  the 
harbor  to  repair  some  injury  which  her  bulwarks  had  sus- 
tained in  a  storm ;  and  Kenneth,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  was  introduced  to  the  mariner's  compass.  The  master, 
in  after  days,  when  his  apprentice  had  become  a  great  man, 
used  to  relate  the  circumstance  with  much  complacency, 
and  compare  him,  as  he  bent  over  the  instrument  in 
wonder  and  admiration,  to  a  negro  of  the  Kanga  tribe 
worshipping  the  elephant's  tooth.  On  the  close  of  his  ap- 
prenticeship he  left  this  part  of  the  country  for  London, 
accompanied  by  his  master's  eldest  son,  a  lad  of  rather 
thoughtless  disposition,  but,  like  his  father,  a  first-rate 
workman. 

Kenneth  soon  began  to  experience  the  straits  and  hard- 
ships of  the  inferior  mechanic.     His  companion  found  little 


m'culloch  the  mechanician.  281 

difficulty  in  procuring  employment,  and  none  at  all  in  re- 
taining it  when  once  procured.  Kenneth,  on  the  contrary, 
was  tossed  about  from  shop  to  shop,  and  from  one  estab- 
lishment to  another  ;  and  for  a  full  twelvemonth,  during 
the  half  of  which  he  was  wholly  unemployed,  he  did  not 
work  for  more  than  a  fortnight  together  with  any  one 
master.  It  would  have  fared  worse  with  him  than  it  did 
had  it  not  been  for  his  companion,  Willie  Sandison,  who 
generously  shared  his  earnings  with  him  every  time  he 
stood  in  need  of  his  assistance.  In  about  a  year  after  they 
had  gone  to  London,  however,  Willie,  an  honest  and  warm- 
hearted, but  thoughtless  lad,  was  inveigled  into  a  bad,  dis- 
reputable marriage,  and  lost,  in  consequence,  his  wonted 
ability  to  assist  his  companion.  We  have  seen  one  of 
Kenneth's  letters  to  his  old  master,  written  about  this  time, 
in  which  he  bewails  Willie's  mishap,  and  dwells  gloomily 
on  his  own  prospects.  How  these  first  began  to  brighten  we 
are  unable  to  say,  for  there  occurs  about  this  period  a  wide 
gap  in  his  story,  which  all  our  inquiries  regarding  him 
have  not  enabled  us  to  fill  ;  but  in  a  second  letter  to  his 
mother,  now  before  us,  which  bears  date  1772,  just  ten 
years  after  the  other,  there  are  the  pi'oofs  of  a  surprising 
improvement  in  his  circumstances  and  condition. 

He  writes  in  high  spirits.  Just  before  sitting  down  to 
his  desk,  he  had  heard  from  his  old  friend  Willie,  who  had 
gone  out  to  one  of  the  colonies,  where  he  was  thriving,  in 
spite  of  his  wife.  He  had  heard,  too,  by  the  same  post, 
from  his  mother,  who  had  been  so  kind  to  him  during  his 
luckless  boyhood;  and  the  old  woman  was  well.  He  had, 
besides,  been  enabled  to  remove  from  his  former  lodging 
to  a  fine,  airy  house  in  Duke's  Court,  opposite  St.  Martin's 
Church,  for  which  he  had  engaged,  he  said,  to  pay  a  rent  of 
forty-two  pounds  per  annum  —  a  very  considerable  sum 
24* 


282  TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

sixty-eight  years  ago ;  and  he  had  entered  into  an  advan- 
tageous contract  with  Catherine  of  Russia,  for  furnishing 
all  the  philosophical   instruments  of  a  new  college    then 
erecting  in  St.  Petersburg,  a  contract  which  promised  to 
secure  about  two  years'  profitable  employment  to  himself 
and  seven  workmen.     In  the  ten  years  which  had  inter- 
vened between  the  dates  of  his  two  letters,  Kenneth  M'Cul- 
loch  had  become  one  of  the  most   skilful  and   inventive 
mechanics  in    London,   perhaps  in  the  world.      He   rose 
gradually  into  affluence  and  celebrity,  and  for  a  considera- 
ble period   before  his  death  his   gains  were  estimated  at 
about  a  thousand  a  year.     His  story,  however,  illustrates 
rather  the  wisdom  of  nature  than  that  of  Kenneth  M'Cul- 
loch.     We  think  all  the  more  highly  of  Franklin  for  being 
so  excellent  a  printer,  and  of  Burns  for  excelling  all  his 
companions  in  the  labors  of  the  field  ;  nor  did  the  skill  or 
vigor  with  which  they  pursued  their  ordinary  employments 
hinder  the  one  from  taking  his  place  among  the  first  phil- 
osophers and  first  statesmen  of  the  age,  nor  prevent  the 
other  from  achieving  his  wide-spread  celebrity  as  at  once 
the  most  original  and  most  popular  of  modern  poets.     Be 
it  remembered,  however,  that  there  is  a  ^narrow  and  lim- 
ited cast  of  genius,  unlike  that  of  either  Burns  or  Franklin, 
which,  though  of  incalculable  value  in  its  own  sphere,  is  of 
no  use  whatever  in  any  other;  and  to  precipitate  it  on  its 
proper  object  by  the  pressure  of  external  circumstances, 
and  the  general  inaptitude  of  its  possessor  for  other  pur- 
suits, seems  to  be  part  of  the  wise  economy  of  Providence. 
Had  Kenneth  M'Culloch  betaken  himself  to  the  plough, 
like  his  father  and  grandfather,  he  would  have  been,  like 
them,  the  tacksman  of  Woodside,  and  nothing  more;  had 
he  found  his  proper  vocation  in  cabinet-making,  he  would 
have  made  tables   and  chairs  for  life,  like  his  ingenious 
master  Donald  Sandison. 


X. 

THE   SCOTCH   MERCHANT 

OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY. 

CHAPTER  I. 

Custom  forms  us  all.    Our  thoughts,  our  morals,  our  most  fixed 
beliefs,  are  consequences  of  our  place  of  birth.  —  Hill. 

It  is  according  to  the  fixed  economy  of  human  affairs 
that  individuals  should  lead,  and  that  masses  should  follow  ; 
for  the  adorable  Being  who  wills  that  the  lower  order  of 
minds  should  exist  by  myriads,  and  produces  the  higher  so 
rarely,  has  willed,  also,  by  inevitable  consequence,  that  the 
many  should  be  guided  by  the  few.  On  the  other  hand,  it 
is  not  less  in  accordance  with  the  dictates  of  His  immuta- 
ble justice,  that  the  interests  of  the  few  should  be  subor- 
dinate to  the  more  extended  interests  of  the  many.  The 
leading  minds  are  to  be  regarded  rather  as  formed  for  the 
masses,  than  the  masses  for  them.  True  it  is,  that,  while 
the  one  principle  acts  with  all  the  undeviating  certainty 
of  a  natural  law,  the  other  operates  partially  and  inter- 
ruptedly, with  all  the  doubtful  efficiency  of  a  moral  one ; 
:ind  hence  those  Ion?-  catalogues  of  crimes  committed 
against  the  species  by  their  natural  leaders  which  so  fill 
the  pages  of  history.     We  see  man  as  the  creature  of  des- 


284  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

tiny  conforming   unresistingly  to   the  one  law;  as  a  free 
agent,  accountable  for  all  bis  actions,  yielding  an  imper- 
fect and  occasional  obedience  to  the  other.     And  yet  bis 
duty  and  his  true  interest,  were  he  but  wise  enough  to  be 
convinced  of  it,  are  in  every  case  the  same.     The  following 
chapters,  as   they  contain  the   history  of  a  mind  of  the 
higher  order,  that,  in  doing  good  to  others,  conferred  solid 
benefits  on  itself,  may  serve  simply  to  illustrate  this  impor- 
tant truth.     They  may  serve,  too,  to  show  the  numerous 
class  whose  better  feelings  are  suffered  to  evaporate  in  idle 
lono-ino-s  for  some  merely  conceivable  field  of  exertion,  that 
wide  spheres    of  usefulness   may  be  furnished   by  situa- 
tions comparatively  unpromising.      They  may  afford,  be- 
sides, occasional  glimpses  of  the  beliefs,  manners,  and  opin- 
ions of  an  age  by  no  means  remote  from  our  own,  but  in 
many  respects  essentially  different  from  it   in  spirit   and 
character. 

The  Lowlanders  of  the  north  of  Scotland  were  beginning, 
about  the  year  1700,  gradually  to  recover  the  effects  of 
that  state  of  miserable  depression  into  which  they  had  been 
plunged  for  the  greater  part  of  the  previous  century.  There 
was  a  slow  awakening  of  the  commercial  spirit  among  the 
more  enterprising  class  of  minds,  whose  destiny  it  is  to 
move  in  the  van  of  society  as  the  guides  and  pioneers  of 
the  rest.     The  unfortunate  expedition  of  Darien  had  dissi- 
pated well-nigh  the  entire  capital  of  the  country  only  a  few 
years  before,  and  ruined  almost  all  the  greater  merchants 
of  the  large  towns.     But  the  energies  of  the  people,  now 
that   they  were  no  longer  borne  down  by  the  wretched 
despotism  of  the  Stuarts,  were  not  to  be  repressed  by  a 
single  blow.     Almost  every  seaport  and  larger  town  had 
its  beginnings  of  trade.     Younger  sons  of  good  family,  who 
would  have  gone,  only  half  a  century  before,  to  serve  as 


THE    SCOTCH    MERCHANT.  285 

mercenaries  in  the  armies  of  the  Continent,  were  learning 
to  employ  themselves  as  merchants  at  home.  And  almost 
every  small  town  had  its  shopkeeper,  who,  after  passing 
the  early  part  of  his  life  as  a  farmer  or  mechanic,  had  set 
himself,  in  the  altered  state  of  the  country,  to  acquire  the 
habits  of  his  new  profession,  and  employed  his  former 
savings  in  trade. 

Among  these  last  was  James  Forsyth,  a  native  of  the 
province  of  Moray.  He  had  spent  the  first  thirty  years  of 
his  life  as  a  mason  and  builder.  His  profession  was  a 
wandering  one,  and  he  had  received  from  nature  the  abil- 
ity of  profiting  by  the  opportunities  of  observation  which 
it  afforded.  He  had  marked  the  gradual  introduction 
among  the  people  of  new  tastes  for  the  various  articles  of 
foreign  produce  and  manufacture  which  were  beginning  to 
flow  into  the  kingdom,  and  had  seen  how  large  a  propor- 
tion the  profits  of  the  trader  bore  —  as  they  always  do  in 
the  infancy  of  trade  —  to  the  amount  of  capital  employed. 
Resigning,  therefore,  his  old  profession,  he  opened  a  small 
shop  in  the  town  of  Cromarty,  whose  lucrative  herring- 
fishery  rendered  it  at  this  period  one  of  the  busiest  little 
places  in  the  north  of  Scotland.  And  as  he  was  at  once 
steady  and  enterprising,  rigidly  just  in  his  dealings,  and 
possessed  of  shrewd  good  sense,  he  had  acquired,  ere  the 
year  1722,  when  his  eldest  son,  William,  the  subject  of  the 
following  memoir,  was  born  to  him,  what  at  that  period 
was  deemed  considerable  wealth.  His  marriage  had  taken 
place,  somewhat  late  in  life,  little  more  than  a  twelvemonth 
before. 

William  received  from  nature,  what  nature  only  can 
bestow,  great  force  of  character,  and  great  kindliness  of 
heart.  The  town  of  Cromarty  at  the  time  was  singularly 
fortunate  in  its  schoolmaster,  Mr.  David  M'Culloch,  a  gen- 


286  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

tleraan  who  terminated  a  long  and  very  useful  life,  many 
years  after,  as  the  minister  of  a  wild  Highland  parish  in 
Perthshire ;  and  William,  who  in  infancy  even  had  begun 
to  manifest  that  restless  curiosity  which  almost  always 
characterizes  the  dawn  of  a  superior  intellect,  was  placed 
at  a  very  early  age  under  his  care.  The  school  —  one  of 
Knox's  strongholds  of  the  Reformation  —  was  situated  in 
a  retired  wooden  corner  behind  the  houses,  with  the  win- 
dows, which  were  half-buried  in  the  thatch,  opening  to  the 
old,  time-worn  Castle  of  Cromarty.  There  could  not  be  a 
more  formidable  spectre  of  the  past  than  the  old  tower. 
It  had  been  from  time  immemorial  the  seat  of  the  heredi- 
tary sheriffs  of  the  district,  whose  powers  at  this  period 
still  remained  entire ;  and  its  tall,  narrow  front  of  blind 
wall,  its  embattled  turrets  and  hanging  bartizans,  seemed 
associated  with  the  tyranny  and  violence  of  more  than  a 
thousand  years.  But  the  low,  rneandooking  building  at 
the  foot  of  the  hill  was  a  masked  battery  raised  against  its 
authority,  which  was  to  burst  open  its  dungeon-door,  and 
to  beat  down  its  gallows.  There  is  a  class  —  the  true 
aristocracy  of  nature  —  which  have  but  to  arise  from 
among  the  people  that  the  people  may  be  free ;  and  the 
humble  old  school  did  its  part  in  separating  its  due  pro- 
portion of  these  from  the  mass.  Of  two  of  the  boys  who 
sat  at  the  same  form  with  William  Forsyth,  one,  the  son 
of  the  town-clerk,  afterwards  represented  the  county  in 
Parliament ;  and  the  other,  of  still  humbler  parentage,  at- 
tracted, many  years  after,  when  librarian  of  the  University 
of  Edinburgh  and  Professor  of  Oriental  Languages,  the 
notice  of  the  far-known  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson. 

The  scheme  of  tuition  established  in  our  Scotch  schools 
of  this  period  was  exactly  that  which  had  been  laid  down 
by  Knox  and  Craig,  in  the  Book  of  Discipline,  rather  more 


THE    SCOTCH    MERCHANT.  287 

than  a  century  and  a  half  before.  Times  had  altered,  how- 
ever; and,  though  still  the  best  possible,  perhaps,  for  minds 
of  a  superior  order,  it  was  no  longer  the  best  for  intellects 
of  the  commoner  class.  The  scheme  drawn  up  by  our 
first  reformers  was  stamped  by  the  liberality  of  men  who 
had  learned  from  experience  that  tyranny  and  superstition 
derive  their  chief  support  from  ignorance.  Almost  all  the 
knowledge  which  books  could  supply  at  the  time  was  locked 
up  in  the  learned  languages.  It  was  appointed,  therefore, 
"that  young  men  who  purposed  to  travill  in  some  handi- 
craft or  other  profitable  exercise  for  the  good  of  the  com- 
monwealth, should  first  devote  ane  certain  time  to  grammar 
and  the  Latin  tongue,  and  ane  certain  time  to  the  other 
tongues  and  the  study  of  philosophy."  But  what  may 
have  been  a  wise  and  considerate  act  on  the  part  of  the 
ancestor,  may  degenerate  into  merely  a  foolish  custom  on 
the  part  of  the  descendant.  Ere  the  times  of  -Mr.  M'Cul- 
loch,  we  had  got  a  literature  of  our  own  ;  and  if  useful 
knowledge  be  learning,  men  might  have  become  learned 
through  an  acquaintance  with  English  reading  alone.  Our 
fathers,  however,  pursued  the  course  which  circumstances 
had  rendered  imperative  in  the  days  of  their  great-grand- 
fathers, merely  because  their  great-grandfathers  had  pur- 
sued it;  and  the  few  years  which  were  spent  in  school  by 
the  poorer  pupils  of  ordinary  capacity,  wen-  absurdly  frit- 
tered away  in  acquiring  a  little  bad  Latin  and  a  very  little 
worse  Greek.  So  strange  did  the  half-learning  of  our 
common  people,  derived  in  this  way,  appear  to  our  south- 
ern neighbors,  that  there  are  writers  of  the  last  century 
who,  in  describing  a  Scotch  footman  or  mechanic,  rarely 
omit  making  his  knowledge  of  the  classics  an  essential  part 
of  the  character.  The  barber  in  "  Roderick  Random  " 
quotes  Horace  in  the  original ;  and  Foote,  in  one  of  his 


288  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

farces,  introduces  a  Scotch  valet,  who,  when  some  one 
inquires  of  him.  whether  he  be  a  Latinist,  indignantly  ex- 
claims, "  Hoot  awa,  man  !  a  Scotchman  and  no  understand 
Latin ! " 

The  school  of  Cromarty,  like  the  other  schools  of  the 
kingdom,  produced  its  Latinists  who  caught  fish  and  made 
shoes  ;  and  it  is  not  much  more  than  twenty  years  since 
the  race  became  finally  extinct.  I  have  heard  stories  of 
an  old  house-painter  of  the  place,  who,  having  survived 
most  of  his  school-fellows  and  contemporaries,  used  to  re- 
gret, among  his  other  vanished  pleasures,  the  pleasure  he 
could  once  derive  from  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  Latin  quo- 
tation, which  the  ignorance  of  a  younger  generation  had 
rendered  of  little  more  value  to  him  than  the  paper-money 
of  an  insolvent  bank  ;  and  I  remember  an  old  cabinet- 
maker who  was  in  the  practice,  when  his  sight  began  to 
fail  him,  of  carrying  his  Latin  Xew  Testament  with  him  to 
church,  as  it  chanced  to  be  printed  in  a  clearer  type  than 
any  of  his  English  ones.  It  is  said,  too,  of  a  learned  fisher- 
man of  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne,  that,  when  employed  one 
day  among  his  tackle,  he  was  accosted  in  Latin  by  the  pro- 
prietor of  Cromarty,  who,  accompanied  by  two  gentlemen 
from  England,  was  sauntering  along  the  shore,  and  that,  to 
the  surprise  of  the  strangers,  he  replied  with  considerable 
fluency  in  the  same  language.  William  Forsyth  was  a 
Latinist,  like  most  of  his  school-fellows ;  but  the  natural 
tone  of  his  mind,  and  the  extent  of  his  information,  were  in 
keeping  with  the  acquirement;  and  while  there  must  have 
been  something  sufficiently  grotesque  and  incongruous,  as 
the  satirists  show  us,  in  the  association  of  a  classic  litera- 
ture with  humble  employments  and  very  ordinary  modes  of 
thought  and  expression,  nothing,  on  the  other  hand,  could 
have  seemed  less  so  than  that  an  enterprising  and  liberal- 


THE    SCOTCH    MERCHANT.  289 

minded  merchant  should  have  added  to  the  manners  and 
sentiments  of  the  gentleman  the  tastes  and  attainments  of 
the  scholar. 


CHAPTER  II. 


The  wise  and  active  conquer  difficulties  by  daring  to  attempt  them ;  Sloth 
and  Folly  shiver  and  shrink  at  sight  of  toil  and  hazard,  and  make  the 
impossibility  they  fear.  —  Rowe. 

William  Foestth  in  his  sixteenth  year  quitted  school, 
and  was  placed  by  his  father  in  a  counting-house  in  Lon- 
don, where  he  formed  his  first  acquaintance  with  trade. 
Circumstances,  however,  rendered  the  initiatory  course  a 
very  brief  one.  His  father,  James  Forsyth,  died  suddenly 
in  the  following  year,  1739  ;  and,  leaving  London  at  the 
request  of  his  widowed  mother,  whose  family  now  consisted 
of  two  other  sons  and  two  daughters, — all  of  them,  of  course, 
younger  than  himself,  —  he  entered  on  his  father's  business 
at  the  early  age  of  seventeen.  In  one  interesting  instance 
I  have  found  the  recollection  of  his  short  stay  in  London 
incidentally  connected  with  the  high  estimate  of  his  char- 
acter and  acquirements  formed  by  one  of  the  shrewdest 
and  tnosl  extensively  informed  of  his  mercantile  acquaint- 
ance. "I  know,"  says  a  lady  who  has  furnished  me  with 
some  of  the  materials  of  these  chapters,  "that  Mr.  Forsyth 
must  have  spent  some  time  in  a  London  counting-house, 
from  often  having  heard  my  father  repeat,  as  a  remark  of 
the  late  Henry  Davidson  of  Tulloch,  that  'had  the  Cro- 
marty merchant  remained   in   the  place  where  he  received 

25 


290  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

his  first  introduction  to  business,  he  would  have  been, 
what  no  Scotchman  ever  was,  lord  mayor  of  London.'  "  I 
need  hardly  add  that  the  remark  is  at  least  half  a  century 
old. 

The  town  of  Cromarty,  at  the  time  of  Mr.  Forsyth's  set- 
tlement in  it,  was  no  longer  the  scene  of  busy  trade  which 
it  had  been  twenty  years  before.     The  herring-fishery  of 
the  place,  at  one  time  the  most  lucrative  on  the  eastern 
coast  of  Scotland,  had  totally  failed,  and  the  great  bulk  of 
the  inhabitants,  who  had  owed  to  it  their  chief  means  of 
subsistence,  had  fallen  into  abject  poverty.     They  seemed 
fast  sinking,  too,  into  that  first  state  of  society  in  which 
there  is  scarce  any  division  of  labor.    The  mechanics  in  the 
town  caught  their  own  fish,  raised  their  own  corn,  tanned 
their  own  leather,  and  wore  clothes  which  had  employed 
no  other  manufacturers  than  their  own  families  and  their 
neighbor   the   weaver.     There  was  scarce   any  money  in 
the  district.     Even  the  neighboring  proprietors  paid  their 
tradesmen  in  kind  ;  and  a  few  bolls  of  malt  or  barley,  or  a 
few  stones  of  flax   or  wool,  settled   the  yearly  account. 
There  could  not,  therefore,  be  a  worse  or  more  hopeless 
scene  for  the  shopkeeper ;  and  had  William  Forsyth  re- 
stricted himself  to  the  trade  of  his  father,  he  must  inevitably 
have  sunk  with  the  sinking  fortunes  of  the  place.     Young 
as  he  was,  however,  he  had  sagacity  enough  to  perceive 
that  Cromarty,  though  a  bad   field  for  the  retail  trader, 
might  prove  a  very  excellent  one  for  the  merchant.     Its 
valuable,  though  at   this   time   neglected  harbor,  seemed 
suited  to  render  it,  what  it  afterwards  became,  the  key 
of  the   adjacent   country.     The  neighboring  friths,  too,  — 
those  of  Dingwall,  Dornoch,  and  Beauly,  which  wind  far 
into  the  Highlands  of  Ross  and  Sutherland,  —  formed  so 
many  broad  pathways  leading  into  districts  which  had  no 


THE    SCOTCH    MERCHANT.  291 

other  roads  at  that  period  ;  and  the  towns  of  Tain,  Dor- 
noch, Dingwall,  Campbelton,  and  Fortrose,  with  the  seats 
of  numerous  proprietors,  are  situated  on  their  shores.  The 
bold  and  original  plan  of  the  young  trader,  therefore,  was 
to  render  Cromarty  a  sort  of  depot  for  the  whole  ;  to  fur- 
nish the  shopkeepers  of  the  several  towns  with  the  com- 
modities in  which  they  dealt,  and  to  bring  to  the  very 
doors  of  the  proprietors  the  various  foreign  articles  of  com- 
fort and  luxury  with  which  commerce  could  alone  supply 
them.  And,  launching  boldly  into  the  speculation  at  a 
time  when  the  whole  country  seemed  asleep  around  him, 
he  purchased  a  freighting-boat  for  the  navigation  of  the 
three  friths,  and  hired  a  large  sloop  for  trading  with  Hol- 
land and  the  commercial  towns  of  the  south. 

The  failure  of  the  herring  trade  of  the  place  had  been  oc- 
casioned by  the  disappearance  of  the  herrings,  which,  after 
frequenting  the  Frith  in  immense  shoals  for  a  long  series 
of  years,  had  totally  deserted  it.  It  is  quite  according  to 
the  nature  of  the  fish,  however,  to  resume  their  visits  as 
suddenly  ami  unexpectedly  as  they  have  broken  them  off, 
though  not  until  after  the  lapse  of  so  many  seasons,  per- 
haps, that  the  fishermen  have  ceased  to  watch  for  their 
appearance  in  their  old  haunts,  or  provide  the  tackle  neces- 
sary for  their  capture  ;  and  in  this  way  a  number  of  years 
are  sometimes  suffered  to  pass,  after  the  return  of  the  fish, 
ere  the  old  trade  is  re-established.  To  guard  against  any 
such  waste  of  opportunity  on  the  part  of  his  townspeople 
was  the  first  care  of  William  Forsyth,  after  creating,  as  it 
were,  a  new  and  busy  trade  for  himself;  and,  representing 
the  case  to  the  more  intelligent  gentlemen  of  the  district, 
and  some  of  the  wealthier  merchants  of  Inverness,  he  suc- 
ceeded in  forming  them  into  a  society  for  the  encourage- 
ment of  the  herring-fishery,  which  provided  a  yearly  pre- 


292  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

mium  of  twenty  marks  Scots  for  the  first  barrel  of  herrings 
caught  every  season  in  the  Moray  Frith.  The  sum  was 
small ;  but  as  money  at  the  time  was  very  valuable,  it 
proved  a  sufficient  inducement  to  the  fishermen  and  trades- 
people of  the  place  to  fit  out  a  few  boats,  about  the  begin- 
ning of  autumn  every  year,  to  sweep  over  the  various  fish- 
ing-banks for  the  herrings  ;  and  there  were  few  seasons  in 
which  some  one  crew  or  other  did  not  catch  enough  to 
entitle  them  to  the  premium.  At  length,  however,  their 
tackle  wore  out  ;  and  Mr.  Forsyth,  in  pursuance  of  his 
scheme,  provided  himself,  at  some  little  expense,  with  a 
complete  drift  of  nets,  which  were  carried  to  sea  each  sea- 
son by  his  boatmen,  and  the  search  kept  up.  His  exer- 
tions, however,  could  only  merit  success,  without  securing 
it.  The  fish  returned  for  a  few  seasons  in  considerable 
bodies,  and  several  thousand  barrels  were  caught  ;  but 
they  soon  deserted  the  Frith  as  entirely  as  before  ;  and 
more  than  a  century  elapsed  from  their  first  disappearance 
ere  they  revisited  their  old  haunts  with  such  regularity 
and  in  such  numbers  as  to  render  the  trade  remunerative 
to  either  the  curers  or  the  fishermen. 

Unlike  the  herring  speculation,  however,  the  general 
trade  of  William  Forsyth  was  eminently  successful.  It 
was  of  a  miscellaneous  character,  as  became  the  state  of  a 
country  so  poor  and  so  thinly  peopled,  and  in  which,  as 
there  was  scarce  any  division  of  labor,  one  merchant  had 
to  perform  the  work  of  many.  He  supplied  the  proprietors 
with  teas  and  wines  and  spiceries,  with  broadcloths,  glass, 
delft-ware,  Flemish  tiles,  and  pieces  of  japanned  cabinet- 
work ;  he  furnished  the  blacksmith  with  iron  from  Sweden, 
the  carpenter  with  tar  and  spars  from  Norway,  and  the 
farmer  with  flaxseed  from  Holland.  He  found,  too,  in 
other  countries  markets  for  the  produce  of  our  own.     The 


THE    SCOTCH   MERCHANT.  293 

exports  of  the  north  of  Scotland  at  this  period  were  mostly 
malt,  wool,  and  salmon.  Almost  all  rents  were  paid  in 
kind  or  in  labor;  the  proprietors  retaining  in  their  own 
hands  a  portion  of  their  estates,  termed  demesnes  or  mains, 
which  was  cultivated  mostly  by  their  tacksmen  and  feuars, 
as  part  of  their  proper  service.  Each  proprietor,  too,  had  his 
storehouse  or  girnel, —  a  tall,  narrow  building,  the  strong- 
box of  the  time,  which  at  the  Martinmas  of  every  year  was 
filled  from  gable  to  gable  with  the  grain-rents  paid  to  him 
by  his  tenants,  and  the  produce  of  his  own  farm.  His  sur- 
plus cattle  found  their  way  south,  under  charge  of  the  dro- 
vers of  the  period  ;  but  it  proved  a  more  difficult  matter 
to  dispose  to  advantage  of  his  surplus  corn,  mostly  barley, 
until  some  one,  more  skilful  in  speculation  than  the  others, 
originated  the  scheme  of  converting  it  into  malt,  and  ex- 
porting it  into  England  and  Flanders.  And  to  so  great 
an  extent  was  this  trade  carried  on  about  the  middle  of  the 
last  century,  that,  in  the  town  of  Inverness,  the  English 
under  Cumberland,  in  the  long-remembered  year  of  Cullo- 
den,  found  almost  every  second  building  a  malt-barn. 

The  town  of  Cromarty  suffered  much  at  this  period,  in 
at  least  the  severer  winters,  from  scarcity  of  fuel.  The 
mosses  of  the  district  were  just  exhausted  ;  and  as  our 
proprietors  had  not  yet  betaken  themselves  to  planting, 
there  were  no  woods,  except  in  some  of  the  remoter  re- 
cesses of  the  country,  where  the  remains  of  some  of  the 
ancient  forests  were  still  suffered  to  survive.  Peats  were 
occasionally  brought  to  the  town  in  boats  from  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  Frith  ;  but  the  supply  was  precarious  and 
insufficient,  and  the  inhabitants  were  content  at  times  to 
purchase  the  heath  of  the  neighboring  hill,  in  patches  of 
an  hundred  square  yards,  and  at  times  even  to  use  for  fuel 
the  dried  dung  of  their  cattle.     "A  Cromarty  fire"  was  a 

25* 


29-1  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

term  used  over  the  country  to  designate  a  fire  just  gone 
out ;  and  some  humorist  of  the  period  has  represented  a 
Cromarty  farmer,  in  a  phrase  which  became  proverbial,  as 
giving  his  daughter  the  key  of  the  peat-chest,  and  bidding 
her  take  out  a  peat  and  a  half  that  she  might  put  on  a 
good  fire.  It  was  the  part  of  Mr.  Forsyth  to  divest  the 
proverb  of  its  edge,  by  opening  up  a  trade  with  the  north- 
ern ports  of  England,  and  introducing  to  the  acquaintance 
of  his  townspeople  the  "  black  stones"  of  Newcastle,  Avhich 
have  been  used  ever  since  as  the  staple  fuel  of  the  place. 
To  those  who  know  how  very  dependent  the  inhabitants 
are  on  this  useful  fossil,  there  seems  an  intangible  sort  of 
strangeness  in  the  fact  that  it  is  not  yet  a  full  century 
since  Mr.  Forsyth's  sloop  entered  the  bay  with  the  first 
cargo  of  coal  ever  brought  into  it.  One  almost  expects  to 
hear  next  of  the  man  who  first  taught  them  to  rear  corn, 
or  to  break  in,  from  their  state  of  original  wildness,  the 
sheep  and  the  cow. 

Mr.  Forsyth  had  entered  upon  his  twenty  fourth  year, 
and  had  been  rather  more  than  six  years  engaged  in  busi- 
ness, when  the  rebellion  broke  out.  There  was  an  end  to 
all  security  for  the  time,  and  of  course  an  end  to  trade  ;  but 
even  the  least  busy  found  enough  to  employ  them  in  the 
perilous  state  of  the  country.  Bands  of  marauders,  the 
very  refuse  of  the  Highlands,  —  for  its  better  men  had 
gone  to  the  south  with  the  rebel  army,  —  went  prowling 
over  the  Lowlands,  making  war  with  all  alike,  whether 
Jacobites  or  Hanoverians,  who  were  rich  enough  to  be 
robbed.  Mr.  Forsyth's  sloop,  in  one  of  her  coasting  voy- 
ages of  this  period,  when  laden  with  a  cargo  of  government 
stores,  was  forced  by  stress  of  weather  into  the  Dornoch 
Frith,  where  she  was  seized  by  a  party  of  Highlanders, 
who  held  her  for  three  days,  in  the  name  of  the  prince. 


THE    SCOTCH    MERCHANT.  295 

They  did  little  else,  however,  than  consume  the  master's 
sea-stock,  and  joke  with  the  ship-boy,  a  young  but  very  in- 
telligent lad,  who,  for  many  years  after,  when  Mr.  Forsyth 
had  himself  become  a  ship-owner,  was  the  master  of  his 
vessel.  He  was  named  Robertson ;  and  as  there  were  sev- 
eral of  the  Robertsons  of  Struan  among  the  party,  he  was 
soon  on  very  excellent  terms  with  them.  On  one  occasion, 
however,  when  rallying  some  of  the  Struans  on  their  under- 
taking, he  spoke  of  their  leader  as  "  the  Pretender."  "  Be- 
ware, my  boy,"  said  an  elderly  Highlander,  "  and  do  not 
again  repeat  that  word.  There  are  men  in  the  ship  who,  if 
they  heard  you,  would  perhaps  take  your  life  for  it ;  for 
remember,  we  are  not  all  Robertsons."  Another  party  of 
the  marauders  took  possession  of  the  town  of  Cromarty  for 
a  short  time,  and  dealt  after  the  same  manner  with  the 
stores  of  townspeople,  whether  of  food  or  clothing,  as  the 
other  had  done  with  the  stores  of  the  shipmaster.  But 
they  were  rather  mischievous  thieves  than  dangerous  ene- 
mies ;  and  except  that  they  robbed  a  few  of  the  women  of 
their  webs  and  yarn,  and  a  few  of  the  men  of  their  shoes 
and  bonnets,  they  left  them  no  very  grave  cause  to  regret 
their  visit. 

It  so  chanced,  however,  that  Mr.  Forsyth  was  brought 
more  seriously  into  contact  with  the  rebels  than  any  of  his 
townsmen.  The  army  of  the  prince,  after  the  failure  of 
the  attempt  on  England,  fell  back  on  the  Highlands;  and 
a  body  of  sixteen  hundred  king's  troops,  which  had  occu- 
pied Inverness,  had  retreated  northwards,  on  their  approach 
into  the  county  of  Sutherland.  They  had  crossed  by  the 
Ferry  of  Cromarty  in  the  hoats  of  the  town's  fishermen; 
and  these,  on  landing  on  the  northern  side,  they  had  bro- 
ken up  to  prevent  the  pursuit  of  the  rebels.  Scarcely  had 
they  been  gone  a  day,  however,  when  an  agent  of  govern- 


296  TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

merit,  charged  with  a  large  sum  of  money,  the  arrears  of 
their  pay,  arrived  at  Cromarty.  He  had  reached  Inverness 
only  to  find  it  in  possession  of  the  rebels ;  and  after  a  per- 
ilous journey  over  a  tract  of  country  where  almost  every 
second  man  had  declared  for  the  prince,  he  found  at  Cro- 
marty his  further  progress  northward  arrested  by  the 
Frith.  In  this  dilemma,  with  the  sea  before  him  and  the 
rebels  behind,  he  applied  to  William  Forsyth,  and,  commu- 
nicating to  him  the  nature  and  importance  of  his  charge, 
solicited  his  assistance  and  advice.  Fortunately  Mr.  For- 
syth's boat  had  been  on  one  of  her  coasting  voyages  at  the 
time  the  king's  troops  had  broken  up  the  others,  and  her 
return  was  now  hourly  expected.  Refreshments  were  has- 
tily set  before  the  half-exhausted  agent ;  and  then  hurry- 
ing him  to  the  feet  of  the  precipices  which  guard  the  en- 
trance of  the  Frith,  Mr.  Forsyth  watched  with  him  among 
the  cliffs  until  the  boat  came  sweeping  round  the  nearer 
headland.  The  merchant  hailed  her  in  the  passing,  saw 
the  agent  and  his  charge  safely  embarked,  and,  after  in- 
structing the  crew  that  they  should  proceed  northwards, 
keeping  as  much  as  possible  in  the  middle  of  the  Frith 
until  they  had  either  come  abreast  of  Sutherland  or  fallen 
in  with  a  sloop-of-war  then  stationed  near  the  mouth  of  the 
Spey,  he  returned  home.  In  the  middle  of  the  following 
night  he  was  roused  by  a  party  of  rebels,  who,  after  inter- 
rogating him  strictly  regarding  the  agent  and  his  charge, 
and  ransacking  his  house  and  shop,  carried  him  with  them 
a  prisoner  to  Inverness.  They  soon  found,  however,  that 
the  treasure,  was  irrecoverably  beyond  their  reach,  and  thr.t 
nothing  was  to  be  gained  by  the  further  detention  of  Mr. 
Forsyth.  He  was  liberated,  therefore,  after  a  day  and 
night's  imprisonment,  just  as  the  rebels  had  learned  that 
the  army  of  Cumberland  had  reached  the  Spey;  and  he 


THE    SCOTCH    MERCHANT.  297 

returned  to  Cromarty  in  time  enough  to  witness  from  the 
neighboring  hill  the  smoke  of  Culloden.  In  after-life  he 
used  sometimes  to  amuse  his  friends  by  a  humorous  detail 
of  his  sufferings  in  the  cause  of  the  king. 


CHAPTER    III. 

So  spake  the  Fiend;  and  with  necessity 
The  tyrant's  plea  excused  his  devilish  deeds. 

Milton. 

By  far  the  most  important  event  of  the  last  century  to 
the  people  of  Scotland  was  the  rebellion  of  1745.  To  use 
an  illustration  somewhat  the  worse  for  the  wear,  it  resem- 
bled one  of  those  violent  hurricanes  of  the  tropics  which 
overturn  trees  and  houses  and  strew  the  shores  with  wreck, 
but  which  more  than  compensate  for  the  mischiefs  they 
occasion  by  dissipating  the  deadly  vapors  of  plague  and 
pestilence,  and  restoring  the  community  to  health.  Previ- 
ous to  its  suppression  the  people  possessed  only  a  nominal 
freedom.  The  church  for  which  they  had  done  and  suf- 
fered so  much  had  now  been  re-established  among  them  for 
nearly  sixty  years  ;  and  they  were  called,  as  elders,  to  take 
a  part  in  its  worship,  and  to  deliberate  in  its  courts.  The 
laws,  too,  especially  those  passed  since  the  union,  recog- 
nized them  as  free.  More  depends,  however,  on  the  ad- 
ministration of  law  than  on  even  the  framing  of  it.  The 
old  hereditary  jurisdictions  still  remained  entire  ;  and  the 
meanest  sheriff  or  baron  of  Scotland,  after  holding  a  court 
composed  of  only  himself  and  his  clerk,  might  consign  the 


298  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

freest  of  his  vassals  to  his  dungeon,  or  hang  him  up  at  his 
castle-door.  But  the  rebellion  showed  that  more  misrht 
be  involved  in  this  despotism  of  the  chiefs  and  proprietors 
of  the  country  than  the  oppression  of  individuals,  and 
that  the  power  which  they  possessed,  through  its  means 
of  calling  out  their  vassals  on  their  own  behalf,  to-day, 
might  be  employed  in  precipitating  them  against  the  gov- 
ernment on  the  morrow.  In  the  year  1747,  therefore,  he- 
reditary jurisdictions  were  abolished  all  over  Scotland,  and 
the  power  of  judging  in  matters  of  life  and  death  restricted 
to  judges  appointed  and  paid  by  the  crown.  To  decide 
on  such  matters  of  minor  importance  as  are  furnished  by 
every  locality, justices  were  appointed;  and  Mr.  Forsyth's 
name  was  placed  on  the  commission  of  the  peace ;  a  small 
matter,  it  may  be  thought,  in  the  present  day,  but  by  no 
means  an  unimportant  one  ninety  years  ago,  to  either  his 
townspeople  or  himself. 

Justices  of  the  peace  had  been  instituted  about  a  century 
and  a  half  before.  But  the  hereditary  jurisdictions  of  the 
kingdom  leaving  them  scarce  any  room  for  the  exercise  of 
their  limited  authority,  the  order  fell  into  desuetude ;  and 
previous  to  its  re-appointment,  on  the  suppression  of  the 
rebellion,  the  administration  of  the  law  seems  to  have 
been  divided,  in  at  least  the  remoter  provinces,  between 
the  hereditary  judges  and  the  church.  The  session  rec- 
ords of  Cromarty  during  the  establishment  of  Episcopacy 
are  still  extant,  and  they  curiously  exemplify  the  class  of 
offences  specially  cognizable  by  the  ecclesiastical  courts. 
They  serve,  too,  to  illustrate,  in  a  manner  sufficiently  strik- 
ing, the  low  tone  of  morals  which  obtained  among  the  peo- 
ple. Our  great-great-grandfathers  were  not  a  whit  wiser 
nor  better  nor  happier  than  ourselves ;  and  our  great- 
great-grandmothers  seem  to  have  had  quite  the  same  pas- 


THE    SCOTCH    MERCHANT.  299 

sions  as  their  descendants,  with  rather  less  ability  to  con- 
trol them.     There  were  ladies  of  Cromarty,  in  the  reign  of 
Charles  II.,  "  maist    horrible    cussers,"  who    accused   one 
another  of  being  "  witches  and  witch  getts,  with  all  their 
folk  afore  them,"  for  generations  untold;  gentlemen  who 
had   to  "  stand  at   the  pillar "  for  unlading  the  boats  of 
a  smusrsfler  at  ten    o'clock   on  a  Sabbath   niedtt :    "  maist 
scandalous  reprobates"  who  got  drunk  on  Sundays,  "and 
abused  decent  folk  ganging  till  the  kirk ;"  and  "  ill-con- 
ditioned royit  loons  who  raisit  disturbances  and  faught  i' 
the  scholars'  loft"  in    the  time   of  divine  service.      Hus- 
bands and  their  wives  do  penance  in  the  church  in  this 
reign  for  their  domestic  quarrels  ;  boys  are  whipped  by  the 
beadle  for  returning  from  a  journey  on  the  Sabbath;  men 
are  set  in  thejoi/gs  for  charging  elders  of  rather  doubtful 
character  with  being  drunk  ;  boatmen  are  fined  for  cross- 
ing the  ferry  with    passengers  "  during  church  time  ;  "  and 
Presbyterian  farmers  are  fined  still  more  heavily  for  absent- 
ing themselves  from  church.     Meanwhile,  when  the  ses- 
sion wa3  thus  employed,  the  sheriff  was  amusing  himself 
in  cutting  off  men's  ears,  starving  them  in  his  dungeon,  or 
hanging  them  up  by  the  neck  on  his  gallows.     A  few  dark 
traditions,  illustrative   of  the  intolerable    tyranny  of  the 
period,  still  survive  ;  and  it  is  not  yet  more  than  nine  years 
since  a  quantity  of  human  bones,  found  in  digging  on   an 
eminence  a  little  above  the  harbor,  which  in  the  reign  of 
Charles  is  said  to  have  been  a  frequent  scene  of  executions, 
served  as  an  attestation  to  their  general  truth.     It  is  said 
that  the  last  person  sentenced  to  death  on  the  gallows-hill 
of  Cromarty  was  a  poor  Highlander  who  had   insulted  the 
sheriff,  and  that,  when  in  the  act  of  mounting  the  ladder, 
he  was  pardoned  at  the  request  of  the  sheriff's  lady. 

There  is  much  of  interest  in  catching  occasional  glimpses 


300  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

of  a  bygone  state  of  society  through  the  chance  vistas  of 
tradition.  They  serve  to  show  us,  in  the  expressive  lan- 
guage of  Scripture,  "  the  rock  whence  we  were  hewn,  and 
the  hole  of  the  pit  whence  we  were  dug."  They  serve, 
too,  to  dissipate  those  dreamy  imaginings  of  the  good  and 
happiness  of  the  past  in  which  it  seems  an  instinct  of  our 
nature  to  indulge,  and  enable  us  to  correct  the  exaggera- 
ted estimates  of  that  school  of  philosophy  which  sees  most 
to  admire  in  society  the  further  it  recedes  from  civilization. 
I  am  enabled  to  furnish  the  reader  with  one  of  these 
chance  glimpses. 

An  old  man  who  died  about  ten  vears  asro,  has  told  me 
that,  when  a  boy,  he  was  sent  on  one  occasion  to  the  manse 
of  a  neighboring   parish  to   bring   back   the  horse  of  an 
elderly  gentleman  of  the  place,  a  retired  officer,  who  had 
gone  to  visit  the  minister  with  the  intention  of  remaining 
with  him  for  a  few  days.     The  officer  was  a  silver-headed, 
erect  old  man,  who  had  served  as  an  ensign  at  the  battle 
of  Blenheim,  and  who,  when  he  had  retired  on  half  pay 
about  forty  years  after,  was  still  a  poor  lieutenant.     His 
riding  clays  were  well-nigh   over;  and  the  boy  overtook 
him  long  ere  he  had  reached  the  manse,  and  just  as  he  was 
joined  by  Mr.  Forsyth,  who  had  come  riding  up  by  a  cross- 
road, and  then   slackened  bridle  to   keep  him    company. 
They  entered  into  conversation.    Mr.  Forsyth  was  curious 
in  his  inquiries,  the  old  gentleman  communicative,  and  the 
boy  a  good   listener.      The  old  man  spoke  much  of  the 
allied  army  under  Marlborough.    By  far  the  strongest  man 
in  it,  he  said,  was  a  gentleman  from  Ross-shire,  Munro  of 
Newmore.     He  had  seen  him  raise  a  piece  of  ordnance  to 
his  breast  which  Mackenzie  of  Fairburn,  another  proprie- 
tor of  the  same  district,  had  succeeded  in  raising  to  his 
knee,  but  which  no  other  man  among  more  than  eighty 


THE    SCOTCH    MERCHANT.  301 

thousand  could  lift  from  off  the  ground.  Newmore  was  con- 
siderably advanced  in  life  at  the  time,  — perhaps  turned  of 
fifty  ;  for  he  had  arrived  at  mature  manhood  about  the 
middle  of  the  reign  of  Charles  II. ;  and,  being  a  singularly 
daring  as  well  as  an  immensely  powerful  man,  he  had  signal- 
ized himself  in  early  life  in  the  feuds  of  his  native  district. 
Some  of  his  lands  bordered  on  those  of  Black  Andrew 
Munro,  the  last  Baron  of  Newtarbat,  one  of  the  most  de- 
testable wretches  that  ever  abused  the  power  of  pit  and 
gallows.  But  as  at  least  their  nominal  politics  were  the 
same,  and  as  the  baron,  though  by  far  the  less  powerful 
man,  was  in  perhaps  a  corresponding  degree  the  more 
powerful  proprietor,  they  had  never  come  to  an  open  rup- 
ture. Newmore,  however,  by  venturing  at  times  to  screen 
some  of  the  baron's  vassals  from  his  fury,  —  at  times  by 
taking  part  against  him  in  the  quarrel  of  some  of  the  petty 
landholders,  whom  the  tyrant  never  missed  an  occasion  to 
oppress,  —  was  by  no  means  one  of  his  favorites.  All  the 
labors  of  the  baron's  demesnes  were  of  course  performed 
by  his  vassals  as  part  of  their  proper  service.  A  late,  wet 
harvest  came  on,  and  they  were  employed  in  cutting  down 
his  crops  when  their  own  lay  rotting  on  the  ground.  It 
is  natural  that  in  such  circumstances  they  should  have 
labored  unwillingly.  All  their  dread  of  the  baron  even, 
who  remained  among  them  in  the  fields,  indulging  in  every 
caprice  of  a  fierce  and  cruel  temper,  aggravated  by  irre- 
sponsible power,  proved  scarcely  sufficient  to  keep  them  at 
wx>rk  ;  and,  to  inspire  them  with  deeper  terror,  an  elderly 
female,  who  had  been  engaged  during  the  night  in  reaping 
a  little  field  of  her  own,  and  had  come  somewhat  late  in 
the  morning,  was  actually  stripped  naked  by  the  savage, 
and  sent  home  again.  In  the  evening  he  was  visited  by 
Munro  of  Newmore,  who  came,  accompanied  by  only  a 
2fi 


302  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

single  servant,  to  expostulate  with  him  on  an  act  so  atro- 
cious and  disgraceful.  Newmore  was  welcomed  witn  a 
show  of  hospitality;  the  baron  heard  him  patiently,  and, 
calling  for  Avine,  they  sat  down  and  drank  together.  It 
was  only  a  few  weeks  before,  however,  that  one  of  the 
neighboring  lairds,  who  had  been  treated  with  a  similar 
show  of  kindness  by  the  baron,  had  been  stripped  half 
naked  at  his  table,  when  in  a  state  of  intoxication,  and 
sent  home  with  his  legs  tied  under  his  horse's  belly.  New- 
more,  therefore,  kept  warily  on  his  guard.  He  had  left  his 
horse  ready  saddled  at  the  gate,  and  drank  no  more  than 
he  could  master,  which  was  quite  as  much,  however,  as 
would  have  overcome  most  men.  One  after  one  the 
baron's  retainers  began  to  drop  into  the  room,  each  on  a 
separate  pretence;  and,  as  the  fifth  entered,  Newmore,  who 
had  seemed  as  if  yielding  to  the  influence  of  the  liquor, 
affected  to  fall  asleep.  The  retainers  came  clustering 
round  him.  Two  seized  him  by  the  arms,  and  two  more 
essayed  to  fasten  him  to  his  chair ;  when  up  he  sprang, 
dashed  his  four  assailants  from  him  as  if  they  had  been 
boys  of  ten  summers,  and,  raising  the  fifth  from  off"  the 
floor,  hurled  him  headlong  against  the  baron,  who  fell 
prostrate  before  the  weight  and  momentum  of  so  unusual 
a  missile.  In  a  minute  after,  Newmore  had  reached  the 
gate,  and,  mounting  his  horse,  rode  away.  The  baron 
died  during  the  night,  a  victim  to  apoplexy,  induced,  it  is 
said,  by  the  fierce  and  vindictive  passions  awakened  on 
this  occasion  ;  and  a  Gaelic  proverb,  still  current  in  the 
Highlands  of  Ross-shire,  shows  with  what  feelings  his  poor 
vassals  must  have  regarded  the  event.  Even  to  the  pres- 
ent day,  a  Highlander  will  remark,  when  overborne  by 
oppression,  that  "  the  same  God  still  lives  who  killed 
Black  Andrew  Munro  of  Newtarbat." 


THE   SCOTCH   MERCHANT.  303 


CHAPTER    IV. 


Are  we  not  brothers  ? 

So  man  and  man  should  be; 

But  clay  and  clay  differs  in  dignity, 

Whose  dust  is  both  alike. 

Shakspeare. 


It  was  no  unimportant  change  to  the  people  of  Cro- 
marty, which  transferred  them  from  the  jurisdiction  of 
hereditary  judges  to  the  charge  of  a  justice  such  as  Mr. 
Forsyth.  For  more  than  thirty  years  after  his  appoint- 
ment he  was  the  only  acting  magistrate  in  the  place;  and 
such  was  the  confidence  of  the  townspeople  in  his  judg- 
ment and  integrity,  that  during  all  that  time  there  was  not 
in  a  single  instance  an  appeal  from  his  decisions.  In  office 
and  character  he  seems  to  have  closely  resembled  one  of 
the  old  landammans  of  the  Swiss  cantons.  The  age  was  a 
rude  one.  Man  is  a  fighting  animal  from  very  instinct,  and 
his  second  nature,  custom,  mightily  improves  the  propen- 
sity;  and  nine  tenths  of  the  cases  brought  before  Mr.  For- 
syth were  cases  of  quarrels.  With  the  more  desperate 
class  of  brawlers  he  could  deal  at  times  with  proper  sever- 
ity. In  most  instances,  however,  a  quarrel  cost  him  a  few 
glasses  of  his  best  Hollands,  and  cost  no  one  else  anything. 
The  disputants  were  generally  shown  that  neither  of  them 
had  been  quite  in  the  right ;  that  one  had  been  too  hasty, 
and  the  other  too  ready  to  take  offence  ;  that  the  first  blow 
had  been  decidedly  a  wrong,  and  the  second  unquestion- 
ably a  misdemeanor  ;  and  then,  after  drinking  one  another's 


304  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

health,  they  parted,  wonderfully  pleased  with  the  decision 
of  Mr.  Forsyth,  and  resolved  to  have  no  more  fighting  till 
their  next  difference.  He  was  much  a  favorite,  too,  with 
the  townsboys.  On  one  occasion,  a  party  of  them  were 
brought  before  him  on  a  charge  of  stealing  green  peas  out 
of  a  field.  Mr.  Forsyth  addressed  them  in  his  sternest 
manner.  There  was  nothing,  he  said,  which  he  so  abhorred 
as  the  stealing  of  green  peas ;  it  was  positively  theft.  He 
even  questioned  whether  their  parents  did  right  in  provid- 
ing them  with  pockets.  Were  they  again  to  be  brought 
before  him  for  a  similar  offence,  they  might  depend,  every 
one  of  them,  on  being  locked  up  in  the  Tolbooth  for  a  fort- 
night. Meanwhile,  to  keep  them  honest,  he  had  resolved 
on  sowing  a  field  of  peas  himself,  to  which  he  would  make 
them  all  heartily  welcome.  Accordingly,  next  season  the 
field  was  sown,  and  there  could  not  be  a  more  exposed 
locality.  Such,  however,  was  the  spirit  of  the  little  men 
of  the  place,  all  of  whom  had  come  to  a  perfect  under- 
standing of  the  decision,  that  not  one  pod  of  Mr.  Forsyth's 
peas  was  carried  away. 

Before  the  close  of  1752,  when  he  completed  his  thirtieth 
year,  Mr.  Forsyth  had  succeeded  in  settling  his  two  broth- 
ers in  business,  the  one  as  a  shopkeeper  in  Dingwall,  the 
other  as  a  merchant  in  Newcastle.  Both  gained  for  them- 
selves, in  their  respective  circles  of  acquaintance,  the  char- 
acter of  worthy  and  intelligent  men ;  and  their  descend- 
ants still  occupy  respectable  places  in  society.  They  had 
acquired  their  education  and  formed  their  habits  of  busi- 
ness under  the  eye  of  William  ;  and  now,  in  the  autumn 
of  this  year,  after  he  had  thus  honorably  acquitted  himself 
of  the  charge  devolved  upon  him  by  the  death  of  his  father, 
he  found  himself  at  liberty  to  gratify  an  attachment  formed 
several  years  before,  by  marrying  a  young  lady  of  great 


THE   SCOTCH   MERCHANT.  305 

worth  and  beauty,  Miss  Margaret  Russell,  a  native  of 
Morayshire.  She  was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Russell  of 
Earlsinill,  chamberlain  to  the  Earl  of  Moray. 

I  shall  indulge,  with  leave  of  the  reader,  in  a  brief  view 
of  the  sociecy  to  which  Mr.  Forsyth  introduced  his  young 
wife.  The  feudal  superior  of  the  town,  and  proprietor  of 
the  neighboring  lands,  formed,  of  course,  its  natural  and 
proper  head.  But  the  proprietor  of  this  period,  a  Captain 
William  Urquhart  of  Meldrum,  had  thrown  himself  so 
fairly  beyond  its  pale,  that  on  his  own  estate,  and  in  his 
own  village,  there  were  none  to  court  favor  or  friendship 
at  his  hands.  He  was  a  gentleman  of  good  family,  and  had 
done  gallant  service  to  the  Spaniards  of  South  America 
against  the  buccaneers.  He  was,  however,  a  stanch  Catho- 
lic, and  he  had  joined  issue  with  the  townspeople,  headed 
by  Mr.  Forsyth,  in  a  vexatious  and  expensive  lawsuit,  in 
which  he  had  contended,  as  patron  of  the  parish,  for  the 
privilege  of  presenting  them  with  a  useless,  time-serving 
clergyman,  a  friend  of  his  own.  And  so  it  was,  that  the 
zeal,  so  characteristic  at  the  time  of  the  people  of  Scotland, 
—  a  zeal  for  religion  and  the  interests  of  the  kirk,  —  had 
more  than  neutralized  in  the  minds  of  the  townspeople 
their  scarcely  less  characteristic  feelings  of  respect  for  the 
laird.  His  place,  therefore,  in  the  society  of  the  town  was 
occupied  by  persons  of  somewhat  less  influence  than  him- 
self. There  was  a  little  circle  of  gentility  in  it,  rich  in 
blood  but  poor  in  fortune,  which  furnished  a  sort  of  repos- 
ing place  for  the  old  prejudices  of  the  people  in  favor  of 
high  descent,  of  ladies  who  were  "real  ladies,"  and  gentle- 
men with  coats  of  arms.  Whenever  there  was  aught  to 
be  done  or  resisted,  however,  the  whole  looked  up  to  Mr. 
Forsyth  as  their  man  of  thought  and  action. 

26* 


306  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

At  the  head  of  this  little  community  there  was  a  dowa. 
ger  lady,  the  many  virtues  of  whose  character  have  found 
a  warm  encomiast  in  the  judicious  and  sober-minded  Dod- 
dridge. The  good  Lady  Ardoch  has  been  dead  for  the 
last  seventy  years,  and  yet  her  name  is  scarcely  less  famil- 
iar in  the  present  day,  to  at  least  the  more  staid  towns- 
people, than  it  was  half  a  century  ago.  She  was  a  daugh- 
ter of  the  Fowlis  family,  one  of  the  most  ancient  and 
honorable  in  Scotland  ;  the  ninth  baron  of  Fowlis  was  slain 
fisjhtinc:  under  the  Bruce  at  Bannockburn.  Her  three 
brothers  —  men  whose  heroism  of  character  and  high  relig- 
ious principle  have  drawn  forth  the  very  opposite  sympa- 
thies of  Philip  Doddridge  and  Sir  Walter  Scott  —  she  had 
lost  in  the  late  rebellion.  The  eldest,  Sir  Robert  Munro, 
the  chief  of  his  clan,  died,  with  his  youngest  brother,  at 
the  battle  of  Falkirk  ;  the  third  was  shot  about  nine 
months  after  by  an  assassin,  who  had  mistaken  him  for 
another  by  whom  he  had  been  deeply  injured,  and  whose 
sorrow  and  remorse  on  discovering  that  he  had  unwittingly 
killed  one  of  the  best  of  his  countrymen,  are  well  described 
by  Sir  Walter  in  his  "Tales  of  a  Grandfather."  Next  in 
place  to  the  good  Lady  Ardoch  was  the  good  Lady  Scots- 
burn, —  the  widow  of  a  Ross-shire  proprietor,  —  who  de- 
rived her  descent  from  that  Archibald,  Marquis  of  Argyle, 
who  acted  so  conspicuous  a  part  during  the  troubles  of  the 
times  of  Charles  L,  and  perished  on  the  scaffold  on  the 
accession  of  Charles  II.  In  excellence  of  character  and  the 
respect  with  which  she  was  regarded,  she  very  much  resem- 
bled her  contemporary  Lady  Ardoch.  There  were,  besides, 
a  family  of  ladies  in  the  place,  the  daughters  of  Urquhart  of 
Greenhill,  a  merchant  of  the  times  of  the  herring  drove,  and 
a  scion  of  the  old  TJrquharts  of  Cromarty,  —  and  another 
much-respected  family,  the  descendants  of  one  of  the  old 


THE   SCOTCH   MERCHANT.  307 

clergymen  of  the  place,  a  Mr.  Gordon.  A  few  ladies  more, 
of  rather  lower  pretensions,  whom  the  kindness  of  relatives 
in  the  south  enabled  to  be  hospitable  and  genteel,  some  on 
fifty  pounds  a  year  and  some  on  thirty,  and  a  few  retired 
half-pay  ensigns  and  lieutenants,  one  of  whom,  as  we  have 
seen,  had  fought  in  the  wars  of  Marlborough,  completed 
what  was  deemed  the  better  society  of  the  place.  They  had 
their  occasional  tea-parties,  at  which  they  all  met ;  for  Mr. 
Forsyth's  trade  with  Holland  had  introduced,  ere  now, 
about  eight  teakettles  into  the  place.  They  had,  too,  what 
was  more  characteristic  of  the  age,  their  regular  prayer- 
meetings;  and  at  these — for  Christianity,  as  the  equalizing 
religion  of  free  men,  has  ever  been  a  breaker-down  of  casts 
and  fictitious  distinctions  —  the  whole  graver  people  of 
the  town  met.  The  parlor  of  Lady  Ardoch  was  open  once 
a  fortnight  to  the  poorer  inhabitants  of  the  place  ;  and  the 
good  lady  of  thirty  descents  knelt  in  her  silks  at  the  same 
form  with  the  good  fisherwoman  in  her  citrch  and  toy. 

It  is  not,  however,  by  notices  such  as  these  that  adequate 
notions  of  the  changes  which  have  taken  place  within  the 
last  century  in  the  very  framework  of  Scottish  society  can 
be  conveyed  to  the  reader.  "  The  state  of  things  is  so  fast 
changing  in  Scotland,"  says  Dr.  Johnson,  in  one  of  his  let- 
ters to  Boswell,  "  that  a  Scotchman  can  hardly  realize  the 
times  of  his  grandfather." 

Society  was  in  a  transition  state  at  the  time.  The  old  ad- 
ventitious bonds  which  had  held  it  together  in  the  past  still 
existed  ;  but  opinion  was  employed  in  forging  others  of  a 
more  natural  and  less  destructible  character.  Among  these 
older  ties,  the  pride  of  family  —  a  pride  which  must  have 
owed  its  general  diffusion  over  Scotland  to  the  clnns  and 
sects  of  the  feudal  system  —  held  by  far  the  most  impor- 
tant place.     There  was  scarce  an  individual,  in  at  l^ast  the 


308  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

northern  counties,  whose  claim  to  self-respect  was  not  in* 
volved  in  the  honor  of  some  noble  family.  There  ran 
through  his  humble  genealogy  some  silver  thread  of  high 
descent;  some  great-great-grandfather  or  grandmother  con- 
nected him  with  the  aristocracy  of  the  country  ;  and  it 
was  his  pride  and  honor,  not  that  he  was  an  independent 
man,  but  that  he  was  in  some  sort  a  dependent  gentle- 
man. Hence  that  assumption  of  gentility  on  the  part  of 
the  Scotch  so  often  and  so  unmercifully  lashed  by  the  Eng- 
lish satirists  of  the  last  century.  Hence,  too,  in  no  small 
measure,  the  entire  lack  of  political  whiggism  among  the 
people.  Under  the  influence  of  the  feelings  described,  a 
great  family  might  be  compared  to  one  of  those  fig-trees 
of  the  East  which  shoot  their  pendulous  branches  into  the 
soil,  and,  deriving  their  stability  from  a  thousand  separate 
roots,  defy  the  tornado  and  the  hurricane.  Be  it  remem- 
bered, too,  that  great  families  included  in  this  way  the 
whole  of  Scottish  society,  from  its  upper  to  its  lower  ex- 
treme. 

Now,  one  of  the  objections  to  this  kind  of  bond  was  the 
very  unequal  measure  of  justice  and  protection  which  it 
secured  to  the  two  grand  classes  which  it  united.  It  de- 
pressed the  people  in  the  one  scale  in  the  proportion  in 
which  it  raised"  the  aristocracy  in  the  other.  It  did  much 
for  Juggernaut,  but  little  for  Juggernaut's  worshippers. 
Though  well-nigh  as  powerful  at  this  time  in  the  north  of 
Scotland  as  it  had  been  at  any  previous  period,  it  was 
fast  losing  its  influence  in  the  southern  districts.  The  per- 
secutions of  the  former  age  had  done  much  to  lessen  its 
efficacy,  by  setting  the  aristocracy,  who,  in  most  instances, 
held  by  the  court  politics  and  the  court  religion,  in  direct 
and  hostile  opposition  to  the  people.  And  the  growing 
commerce  of  the  larger  towns  had  done  still  more  to  lower 


THE    SCOTCH    MERCHANT.  309 

it,  by  raising  up  from  among  the  people  that  independent 
middle  class,  the  creators  and  conservators  of  popular  lib- 
erty, without  which  the  population   of  any  country  can 
consist  of  only  slaves  and  their  masters.      Even    in  the 
northern  districts  there  were  causes  coming  into  operation 
which  were  eventually  to  annihilate  the  sentiment  in  at 
least  its  more  mischievous  tendencies.     The  state  of  mat- 
ters in  the  town  of  Cromarty  at  this  time,  where  a  zealous 
Catholic  was  struggling  to  obtrude  a  minister  of  his  own 
choosing  on  a  Protestant  people,  furnishes  no  bad  illustra- 
tion of  the  nature  of  some  of  these,  and  of  their  mode  of 
working.     The  absurd  and  mischievous  law  of  patronage 
was  doing  in  part  for  the  Lowland  districts  of  the  north 
what  the  persecutions  of  the  Stuarts  had  done  for  those  of 
the  south  an  age  before,  and  what  the  large  sheep-farm 
system,  and  the  consequent  ejection  of  the  old  occupants 
of  the  soil,  has  done  for  the  Highlands  an  age  after.     And 
the  first  two  were   causes  admirably  suited  to  awaken  a 
people  who  had  derived  their  notions  of  rational  liberty 
solely   through   the    medium    of  religious   belief.      Their 
whiggism  was  a  whiggism  not  of  this  world,  but  of  the 
other  ;    and  as  the  privilege  of  preparing  themselves  for 
heaven  in  what  they  believed  to  be  exclusively  the  right 
way  was  the  only  privilege  they  deemed  worth  while  con- 
tending for,  their  first  struggle  fur  liberty  was  a  struggle 
that  their  consciences  might  be  free.    The  existence,  too,  of 
such  men  among  them  as  Mr.  Forsyth,  men  who  had  risen 
from  their  own  level,  had  a  twofold  influence  on  the  con- 
test.    They  formed  a  sort  of  aristocracy  of  the  people  that 
served  to  divide  the  old  feelings  of  respect  which  had 
been  so  long  exclusively  paid  to  the  higher  aristocracy; 
and  they  were  enabled,  through  their  superior  intelligence; 


310  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

to  give  a  weight  and  respectability  to  the  popular  party 
which  it  could  not  otherwise  have  possessed. 

William  Forsyth  was  singularly  unfortunate  in  his  mar- 
riage. Towards  the  close  of  the  first  year,  when  but  learn- 
ing fully  to  appreciate  the  comforts  of  a  state  to  which  so 
many  of  the  better  sentiments  of  our  nature  bear  reference, 
and  to  estimate  more  completely  the  worth  of  his  partner, 
she  was  suddenly  removed  from  him  by  death,  at  a  time 
when  he  looked  with  most  hope  for  a  further  accession  to 
his  happiness.  She  died  in  childbed,  and  the  fruit  of  her 
womb  died  with  her.  Her  husband,  during  the  long  after- 
course  of  his  life,  never  forgot  her,  and  for  eleven  years 
posterior  to  the  event  he  remained  a  widower  for  her  sake. 


CHAPTER  V. 

There  is  a  certain  lively  gratitude  which  not  only  acquits  us  of  the  obli- 
gations we  have  received,  but,  by  paying  what  we  owe  them,  makes  our 
friends  indebted  to  us.  —  La  Rochefaucacld. 

Among  the  school-fellows  of  William  Forsyth  there  was 
a  poor  orphan  boy  named  Hossack,  a  native  of  the  land- 
ward part  of  the  parish.  He  had  lost  both  his  parents 
when  an  infant,  and  owed  his  first  knowledge  of  letters  to 
the  charity  of  the  schoolmaster.  His  nearer  relatives  were 
all  dead,  and  he  was  dependent  for  a  precarious  subsistence 
on  the  charity  of  a  few  distant  connections,  not  a  great 
deal  richer  than  himself;  among  the  rest,  on  a  poor  widow, 
a  namesake  of  his  own,  who  earned  a  scanty  subsistence  by 


THE    SCOTCH    MERCHANT.  311 

her  wheel,  but  who  had  heart  enough  to  impart  a  portion 
of  her  little  to  the  destitute  scholar.  The  boy  was  studious 
and  thoughtful,  and  surpassed  most  of  his  schoolfellows ; 
and,  after  passing  with  singular  rapidity  through  the  course 
pursued  at  school,  he  succeeded  in  putting  himself  to  col- 
lege. The  struggle  was  arduous  and  protracted.  Some- 
times he  wrought  as  a  common  laborer,  sometimes  he  ran 
errands,  sometimes  he  taught  a  school.  He  deemed  no 
honest  employment  too  mean  or  too  laborious,  that  fur- 
warded  his  scheme;  and  thus  he  at  length  passed  through 
college.  His  townspeople  then  lost  sight  of  him  for  nearly 
twenty  years.  It  was  understood,  meanwhile,  that  some 
nameless  friend  in  the  south  had  settled  a  comfortable  an- 
nuity on  poor  old  widow  Ilossack,  and  that  a  Cromarty 
sailor,  who  had  been  attacked  by  a  dangerous  illness  when 
at  London,  had  owed  his  life  to  the  gratuitous  attentions 
of  a  famous  physician  of  the  place,  who  had  recognized 
him  as  a  townsman.  No  one,  however,  thought  of  the 
poor  scholar;  and  it  was  not  until  his  carriage  drove  up 
one  day  through  the  main  street  of  the  town,  and  stopped 
at  the  door  of  William  Forsyth,  that  he  was  identified  with 
"the  great  doctor"  who  had  attended  the  seaman,  and 
with  the  benefactor  of  the  poor  widow.  On  entering  tin- 
cottage  of  the  latter,  he  found  her  preparing  gruel  far  sup- 
per, and  was  asked,  with  the  anxiety  of  a  gratitude  that 
would  fain  render  him  some  return,  "  O,  sir,  will  ye  no  talc' 
brochan?"  He  is  said  to  have  been  a  truly  excellent  and 
benevolent  man,  —  the  Abercromby  of  a  former  age;  ami 
the  ingenious  and  pious  Moses  Browne  (a  clergyman  who. 
to  the  disgrace  of  the  English  Church,  was  suffered  to  lan- 
guish through  lite  in  a  curacy  <>!'  fifty  pounds  per  annum) 
thus  addresses  him  in  one  of  his  larger  poems,  written  ira 


312  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

mediately  after  the  recovery  of  the  author  from  a  long  and 

dangerous  illness. 


o 


The  God  I  trust,  with  timeliest  kind  relief, 

Sent  the  beloved  physician  to  my  aid 

(Generous,  humanest,  affable  of  soul, 

Thee,  dearest  Hossack —  oh,  long  known,  long  loved, 

Long  proved;  in  oft-found  tenderest  watching  cares, 

The  Christian  friend,  the  man  of  feeling  heart) ; 

And  in  his  skilful,  heaven-directed  hand, 

Put  his  best  pleasing,  only  fee,  my  cure. 

Sunday  Thoughts,  Part  IV. 

To  this  gentleman  Mr.  Forsyth  owed  a  very  useful  hint, 
which  he  did  not  fail  to  improve.  They  were  walking  to- 
gether at  low  ebb  along  the  extensive  tract  of  beach  which 
skirts,  on  the  south,  the  entrance  of  the  Frith  of  Cromarty. 
The  shore  everywhere  in  this  tract  presents  a  hard  bottom 
of  boulder  stones  and  rolled  pebbles,  thickly  covered  with 
marine  plants  ;  and  the  doctor  remarked  that  the  brown 
tangled  forests  before  them  might  be  profitably  employed 
in  the  manufacture  of  kelp,  and,  at  the  request  of  Mr. 
Forsyth,  described  the  process.  To  the  enterprising  and 
vigorous-minded  merchant  the  remark  served  to  throw  open 
a  new  field  of  exertion.  He  immediately  engaged  in  the 
kelp  trade ;  and,  for  more  than  forty  years  after,  it  enabled 
him  to  employ  from  ten  to  twelve  persons  during  the  sum- 
mer and  autumn  of  each  year,  and  proved  remunerative  to 
himself. 

There  is  a  story  of  two  of  Mr.  Forsyth's  kelp-burners, 
which,  as  it  forms  a  rather  curious  illustration  of  some  of 
the  wilder  beliefs  of  the  period,  I  shall  venture  on  intro- 
ducing to  the  reader.  The  Sutors  of  Cromarty  were  known 
all  over  the  country  as  resorts  of  the  hawk,  the  eagle,  and 
the  raven,  and  of  all  the  other  builders  among  dizzy  and 


THE    SCOTCH    MERCHANT.  313 

inaccessible  cliffs;  and  a  gentleman  of  Moray,  a  sportsman 
of  the  old  school,  having  applied  to  a  friend  in  this  part  of 
the  country  to  procure  for  him  a  pair  of  young  hawks,  of  a 
species  prized  by  the  falconer,  Tam  Poison,  an  unsettled, 
eccentric  being,  remarkable  chiefly  for  his  practical  jokes, 
and  his  constant  companion  Jock  Watson,  a  person  of 
nearly  similar  character,  were  entrusted  with  the  commis- 
sion, and  a  promise  of  five  pounds  Scots,  no  inconsiderable 
sum  in  those  days,  held  out  to  them  as  the  reward  of  their 
success  in  the  execution  of  it.  They  soon  discovered  a 
nest,  but  it  was  perched  near  the  top  of  a  lofty  cliff,  inac- 
cessible to  the  climber;  and  there  was  a  serious  objection 
against  descending  to  it  by  means  of  a  rope,  seeing  that 
the  rope  could  not  be  held  securely  by  fewer  than  three  or 
four  persons,  who  would  naturally  claim  a  share  of  the  re- 
ward.  It  was  suggested,  however,  by  Tam,  that  by  fasten- 
ing the  rope  to  a  stake,  even  one  person  might  prove  suf- 
ficient to  manage  it  when  the  other  warped  himself  down  ; 
and  so,  providing  themselves  with  the  stay-rope  of  one  of 
their  boats,  and  the  tether-stake  of  one  of  their  cattle,  — 
for,  like  most  of  the  townspeople,  they  were  both  boatmen 
and  croft-renters,  —  they  set  out  for  the  cliff  early  on  a 
Monday  morning,  ere  the  other  members  of  the  kelp  party 
with  whom  they  wrought  were  astir.  The  stake  was  driven 
into  the  stiff"  diluvial  clay  on  the  summit  of  the  cliff;  and 
Tarn's  companion,  who  was  the  lighter  man  of  the  two, 
cautiously  creeping  to  the  edge,  swung  himself  over,  and 
began  to  descend  ;  but,  on  reaching  the  end  of  the  stay- 
rope,  he  fonnd  he  was  still  a  few  feet  short  of  the  nest; 
and,  anxious  only  to  secure  the  birds,  he  called  on  his  com- 
panion to  raise  the  stake,  and  fix  it  a  little  nearer  the  brink. 
The  stake  was  accordingly  raised;  but  the  strength  of  one 

man  being  insufficient  to  hold  it  on  such  broken  ground, 
27 


314  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

and  far  less  than  sufficient  to  fasten  it  clown  as  before,  Tain, 
in  spite  of  his  exertions,  staggered  step  after  step  towards 
the  edge  of  the  precipice.  "  O  Jock  !  O  Jock!  O  Jock  !  " 
he  exclaimed,  straining  meanwhile  every  nerve  in  an  agony 
of  exertion,  "  ye'll  be  o'er  like  a  pock  o'  weet  fish."  "  Gae 
a  wee  bittie  down  yet,"  answered  the  other.  "Down! 
down  !  deil  gae  down  wi'  ye,  for  I  can  gae  nae  farther," 
rejoined  Tarn;  and,  thro wring  off  the  rope, — for  he  now 
stood  on  the  uttermost  brink, —  a  loud  scream,and,  after 
a  fearful  pause  of  half  a  minute,  a  deep  hollow  sound  from 
the  bottom  told  all  the  rest.  "  Willawins  for  poor  Jock 
Watson,"  exclaimed  Tam  Poison;  "win  the  gude  five 
pounds  wha  like,  they'll  no  be  won,  it  seems,  by  either  him 
or  me." 

The  party  of  kelp-burners  were  proceeding  this  morning 
to  the  scene  of  their  labors,  through  a  heavy  fog ;  and  as 
they  reached  the  furnace  one  by  one,  they  sat  down  front- 
ing it,  to  rest  them  after  their  walk,  and  wait  the  coming 
up  of  the  others.  Tam  Poison  had  already  taken  his  place 
amontr  the  rest;  and  there  were  but  two  amissin^,  the 
man  whose  dead  body  now  lay  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff,  and 
a  serious  elderly  person,  one  of  his  neighbors,  whose  com- 
pany he  sometimes  courted.  At  length  they  were  both 
seen  as  if  issuing  out  of  a  dense  cloud  of  mist. 

"  Yonder  they  come,"  said  one  of  the  kelp-burners  ; 
"but  gudesake  !  only  look  how  little  Jock  Watson  looms 
through  the  fog  as  mickle's  a  giant." 

"  Jock  Watson  !  "  exclaimed  Poison,  starting  to  his  feet, 
and  raising  his  hands  to  his  eyes,  with  a  wild  expression 
of  bewilderment  and  terror,  "aye,  murdered  Jock  Watson, 
as  sure  as  death  !  " 

The  figure  shrank  into  the  mist  as  he  spoke,  and  the  old 
man  was  seen  approaching  alone. 


THE    SCOTCH    MERCHANT.  315 

"  What  hae  ye  clone  to  Jock  Watson,  Donald?  "  was  the 
eager  query  put  to  him,  on  his  coming  up,  by  half  a  dozen 
voices  at  once. 

"  Ask  Tarn  Poison  there,"  said  the  old  man.  "  I  tapped 
at  Jock's  window  as  I  passed,  and  found  he  had  set  out  wi' 
Tam  half  an  hour  afore  daybreak." 

"Oh,"  said  Tam,  "  it  was  poor  murdered  Jock  Watson's 
ghaist  we  saw ;  it  was  Jock's  ghaist."  And  so  he  divulged 
the  whole  story. 

The  British  Linen  Company  had  been  established  in  Ed- 
inburgh about  the  year  1746,  chiefly  with  a  view,  as  the 
name  implies,  of  forwarding  the  interests  of  the  linen  trade; 
and  in  a  few  years  after,  Mr.  Forsyth,  whose  character  as 
an  active  and  successful  man  of  business  was  beginning  to 
be  appreciated  in  more  than  the  north  of  Scotland,  was 
chosen  as  the  Company's  agent  for  that  extensive  tract  of 
country  which  intervenes  between  the  Pentland  Frith  and 
the  Frith  of  Beauly.  The  linen  trade  was  better  suited  at 
this  time  to  the  state  of  the  country  and  the  previously- 
acquired  habits  of  the  people  than  any  other  could  have 
been.  All  the  linens  worn  in  Scotland,  with  the  exception, 
perhaps,  of  some  French  cambrics,  were  of  home  manufac- 
ture. Every  female  was  skilled  in  spinning,  and  every 
little  hamlet  had  its  weaver,  who,  if  less  a  master  of  his 
profession  than  some  of  the  weavers  of  our  manufacturing 
towns  in  the  present  day,  was  as  decidedly  superior  to  our 
provincial  weavers.  A  knowledge  of  what  may  be  termed 
the  higher  departments  of  the  craft  was  spread  more  equally 
over  the  country  than  now  ;  and,  as  is  always  the  case  be- 
fore the  minuter  subdivisions  of  labor  take  place,  if  less 
could  be  produced  by  the  trade  as  a  body,  the  average 
ability  ranked  higher  in  individuals.  In  establishing  the 
linen  trade,  therefore,  as  the  skill  essential  to  carrying  it  on 


316  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

already  existed,  it  was  but  necessary  that  motives  should 
be  held  out  sufficiently  powerful  to  awaken  the  industry 
of  the  people  ;  and  these  were  furnished  by  Mr.  Forsyth, 
in  the  form  of  remunerative  prices  for  their  labor.  The 
town  of  Cromarty,  from  its  central  situation  and  excellent 
harbor,  was  chosen  as  the  depot  of  the  establishment. 
The  flax  was  brought  in  vessels  from  Holland,  prepared 
for  the  spinners  in  Cromarty,  and  then  distributed  by  the 
boats  of  Mr.  Forsyth  along  the  shores  of  the  Friths  of  Dor- 
noch, Dingwall,  and  Beauly,  and  northwards  as  far  as  Wick 
and  Thurso.  At  the  commencement  of  the  trade  the  distaff 
and  spindle  was  in  extensive  use  all  over  the  north  of  Scot- 
land, and  the  spinning-wheel  only  partially  introduced  into 
some  of  the  towns ;  but  the  more  primitive  implement 
was  comparatively  slow  and  inefficient,  and  Mr.  Forsyth, 
the  more  effectually  to  supplant  it  by  the  better  machine, 
made  it  an  express  condition  with  all  whom  he  employed 
for  a  second  year,  that  at  least  one  wheel  should  be  intro- 
duced into  every  family.  He,  besides,  hired  skilful  spin- 
ners to  go  about  the  country  teaching  its  use ;  and  so 
effectual  were  his  measures  that,  in  about  ten  years  after 
the  commencement  of  the  trade,  the  distaff  and  spindle 
had  almost  entirely  disappeared.  There  are  parts  of  the 
remote  Highlands,  however,  in  which  it  is  still  in  use  ;  and 
the  writer,  when  residing  in  a  wild  district  of  western 
Ross,  which  borders  on  the  Atlantic,  has  repeatedly  seen 
the  Highland  women,  as  they  passed  to  and  from  the  shore, 
at  once  bending  under  the  weight  of  the  creel  with  which 
they  manured  their  lands,  and  ceaselessly  twirling  the 
spindle  as  it  hung  beneath  the  staff. 


THE    SCOTCH    MERCHANT.  317 


CHAPTER  VI. 


The  less  we  know  as  to  things  that  can  be  done,  the  less  scepti- 
cal are  we  as  to  things  that  cannot.  —  Colton. 


About  five  years  after  the  establishment  of  the  linen 
trade,  Mr.  Forsyth  became  a  shipowner;  and  as  he  had 
made  it  a  rule  never  to  provide  himself  from  other  coun- 
tries with  what  could  be  produced  by  the  workmen  of  his 
own,  his  first  vessel,  a  fine  large  sloop,  was  built  at  Fort- 
rose.     There    had    been   ship-builders  established  at  Cro- 
marty at  a  much  earlier  period.     Among  the  designations 
attached  to  names,  which  we  find  in  the  older  records  of 
the  place,  there  is  none  of  more  frequent  occurrence  than 
that  of  ship-carpenter.     There  are  curious  stories,  too,  con- 
nected with  ship-launches,  which  serve  to  mark  the  remote 
period  at  which  these  must  have  occurred.     An  occasion 
of  this  kind,  at  a  time  when  the  knowledge  of  mechanics 
was  more  imperfect  and  much  less  general  than  at  present, 
was  always  one  of  great  uncertainty.     Accidents  were  con- 
tinually occurring;  and  superstition  found  room  to  mingle 
her  mysterious  horrors  with  the  doubts    and  fears   with 
which  it  was  naturally  attended.     Witches  and  the  Evil 
Eye  were  peculiarly  dreaded  by  the  carpenter  on  the  day 
of  a  launch  ;  and  it  is  said  of  one  of  the  early  Cromarty 
launches  that,  the  vessel  having  stopped  short  in  the  middle 
of  her  course,  the  master-carpenter  was  so  irritated  with  a 
reputed  witch  among  the  spectators,  to  whom  he  attributed 
27* 


318  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

the  accident,  that  he  threw  her  down  and  broke  her  arm. 
A  single  anecdote,  though  of  a  lighter  cast,  preserves  the 
recollection  of  Mr.  Forsyth's  ship-building  at  Fortrose. 
The  vessel  was  nearly  finished ;  and  a  half-witted  knave, 
named  Tarn  Reid,  who  had  the  knack  of  tricking  every- 
body, —  even  himself  at  times,  —  was  despatched  by  Mr. 
Forsyth  with  a  bottle  of  turpentine  to  the  painters.  Tam, 
however,  who  had  never  more  than  heard  of  wine,  and 
who  seems  to  have  taken  it  for  granted  that  the  bottle  he 
carried  contained  nothing  worse,  contrived  to  drink  the 
better  half  of  it  by  the  way,  and  was  drugged  almost  to 
death  for  his  pains.  When  afterwards  humorously  charged 
by  Mr.  Forsyth  with  breach  of  trust,  and  urged  to  confess, 
truly,  whether  he  had  actually  drunk  the  whole  of  the 
missing  turpentine,  he  is  said  to  have  replied,  in  great 
wrath,  that  he  "  widna  gie  a'e  glass  o'  whiskey  for  a'  the 
wine  i'  the  warld." 

Mr.  Forsyth's  vessels  were  at  first  employed  almost  ex- 
clusively in  the  Dutch  trade  ;  but  the  commerce  of  the 
country  gradually  shifted  its  old  channels,  and  in  his  latter 
days  they  were  engaged  mostly  in  trading  between  the 
north  of  Scotland  and  the  ports  of  Leith,  London,  and 
Newcastle.  There  are  curious  traditionary  anecdotes  of 
his  sailors  still  afloat  among  the  people,  which  illustrate 
the  credulous  and  imaginative  character  of  the  age.  Sto- 
ries of  this  class  may  be  regarded  as  the  fossils  of  history  : 
they  show  the  nature  and  place  of  the  formation  in  which 
they  occur.  The  Scotch  sailors  of  ninety  years  ago  were 
in  many  respects  a  very  different  sort  of  persons  from  the 
sailors  of  the  present  day.  They  formed  one  of  the  most 
religious  classes  of  the  community.  There  were  even  found- 
ers of  sects  among  them.  The  too  famous  John  Gibb  was 
a  sailor  of  Borrowstounness  ;  and  the  worthy  Scotchman 


THE    SCOTCH    MERCHANT.  319 

who  remarked  to  Peter  Walker  that  "  the  ill  of  Scotland 
he  found  everywhere,  but  the  good  of  Scotland  nowhere 
save  at  home,"  was  a  sailor  too.  Mr.  Forsyth  was  much 
attached  to  the  seamen  of  this  old  and  venerable  class,  and 
a  last  remnant  of  them  might  be  found  in  his  vessels  when 
they  had  become  extinct  everywhere  else.  On  the  break- 
ing out  of  the  revolutionary  war,  his  sloop,  the  Elizabeth, 
was  boarded  when  lying  at  anchor  in  one  of  our  Highland 
lochs  by  a  press-gang  from  a  king's  vessel,  and  the  crew, 
who  chanced  to  be  all  under  hatches  at  the  time,  were 
summoned  on  deck.  First  appeared  the  ancient  weather- 
beaten  master,  a  person  in  his  grand  climacteric  ;  then 
came  Saunders  M'lver,  the  mate,  a  man  who  had  twice 
sailed  round  the  world  about  half  a  century  before  ;  then 
came  decent  Thomas  Grant,  who  had  been  an  elder  of  the 
kirk  for  more  than  forty  years ;  and  last  of  all  came  old, 
gray-headed  Robert  Hossack,  a  still  older  man  than  any 
of  the  others.  "  Good  heavens !  "  exclaimed  the  officer 
who  commanded  the  party,  "  here,  lads,  are  the  four  sailors 
who  manned  the  ark  alive  still."  I  need  hardly  add,  that 
on  this  occasion  he  left  all  her  crew  to  the  Elizabeth. 

Some  of  the  stories  of  Mr.  Forsyth's  sailors  may  serve  to 
enliven  my  narrative.  The  master  of  the  Elizabeth,  in  one 
of  his  Dutch  voyages,  when  on  the  eve  of  sailing  for  Scot- 
land, had  gone  into  a  tavern  with  the  merchant  from  whom 
he  had  purchased  his  cargo,  and  was  shown  by  mistake 
into  a  room  in  which  there  lay  an  old  woman  ill  of  a  ma- 
lignant fever.  The  woman  regarded  him  with  a  long  and 
ghastly  stare,  which  haunted  him  all  the  evening  after; 
and  during  the  night  he  was  seized  by  the  fever.  lie  sent 
for  a  physician  of  the  place.  His  vessel  was  bound  for  sea 
he  said,  and  the  crew  would  be  wholly  unable  to  bring  her 
home  without  him.     Had  he  no  medicine  potent  enough 


320  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

to  arrest  the  progress  of  the  disease  for  about  a  week? 
The  physician  replied  in  the  affirmative,  and  prescribed 
with  apparent  confidence.  The  master  quitted  his  bed  on 
the  strength  of  the  prescription,  and  the  vessel  sailed  for 
Cromarty.  A  storm  arose,  and  there  was  not  a  seaman 
aboard  who  outwrought  or  outwatched  the  master.  He 
began  to  droop,  however,  as  the  weather  moderated,  and 
his  strength  had  so  failed  him  on  reaching  Cromarty,  that 
his  sailors  had  to  carry  him  home  in  a  litter.  The  fever 
had  returned,  and  more  than  six  weeks  elapsed  after  his 
arrival  ere  he  had  so  far  recovered  from  it  as  to  be  able  to 
leave  his  bed.  The  story  is,  I  believe,  strictly  true  ;  but 
in  accounting,  in  the  present  day,  for  the  main  fact  which 
it  supplies,  we  would  perhaps  be  inclined  to  attribute  less 
than  our  fathers  did  to  the  skill  of  the  physician,  and 
more  to  the  force  of  imagination  and  to  those  invigorating 
energies  which  a  sense  of  danger  awakens. 

Old  Saunders  M'lver,  the  mate  of  the  Elizabeth,  was  one 
of  the  most  devout  and  excellent  men  of  the  place.  There 
was  in  some  degree,  too,  a  sort  of  poetical  interest  attached 
to  him,  from  the  dangers  which  he  had  encountered  and 
the  strange  sights  which  he  had  seen.  He  had  seen  smoke 
and  flame  bursting  out  of  the  sea  in  the  far  Pacific,  and 
had  twice  visited  those  remote  parts  of  the  world  which 
lie  directly  under  our  feet,  —  a  fact  which  all  his  townsmen 
credited,  for  Saunders  himself  had  said  it,  but  which  few 
of  them  could  understand.  In  one  of  his  long  voyages, 
the  crew  with  whom  he  sailed  were  massacred  by  some  of 
the  wild  natives  of  the  Indian  Archipelago,  and  he  alone 
escaped  by  secreting  himself  in  the  rigging,  and  from 
thence  slipping  unobserved  into  one  of  the  boats,  and  then 
cutting  her  loose.  But  he  was  furnished  with  neither  oars 
nor  sail ;  and  it  was  not  until  he  had  been  tossed  at  the 


THE    SCOTCH   MERCHANT.  321 

mercy  of  the  tides  and  winds  of  the  Indian  Ocean  for 
nearly  a  week,  that  he  was  at  length  picked  up  by  a  Euro- 
pean vessel.  So  powerfully  was  he  impressed  on  this  oc- 
casion, that  it  is  said  he  was  never  after  seen  to  smile.  He 
was  a  grave  and  somewhat  hard-favored  man,  powerful  in 
bone  and  muscle  even  after  he  had  considerablv  turned  his 
sixtieth  year,  and  much  respected  for  his  inflexible  integ- 
rity and  the  depth  of  his  religious  feelings.  Both  Saunders 
and  his  wife  —  a  person  of  equal  worth  with  himself — were 
especial  favorites  with  Mr.  Porteous  of  Kilmuir,  —  a  min- 
ister of  the  same  class  with  the  Pedens,  Renwicks,  and 
Cargills  of  a  former  age,  —  and  on  one  occasion,  when  the 
sacrament  was  held  in  his  parish,  and  Saunders  was  absent 
on  one  of  his  Dutch  voyages,  Mrs.  M'lver  was  an  inmate 
of  the  manse.  A  tremendous  storm  burst  out  in  the  night- 
time ;  and  the  poor  woman  lay  awake,  listening  in  utter 
terror  to  the  fearful  roarings  of  the  wind,  as  it  howled  in 
the  chimneys  and  shook  the  casements  and  the  door.  At 
length,  when  she  could  lie  still  no  longer,  she  arose,  and, 
creeping  along  the  passage  to  the  door  of  the  minister's 
chamber,  uO  Mr.  Porteous!"  she  said,  "Mr.  Porteous, 
do  ye  no  hear  that,  and  poor  Saunders  on  Ids  way  back 
fra  Holland  !  Oh,  rise,  rise,  and  ask  the  strong  help  o'  your 
Master!"  The  minister  accordingly  rose,  and  entered  his 
closet.  The  Elizabeth,  at  this  critical  moment,  was  driv- 
ing onwards,  through  the  spray  and  darkness,  along  the 
northern  shore  of  the  Moray  Frith.  The  fearful  skerries 
of  Shandwick,  where  so  many  gallant  vessels  have  per- 
ished, were  close  at  hand,  and  the  increasing  roll  of  the 
sea  showed  the  gradual  shallowing  of  the  water.  M'lver 
and  his  old  townsman  Robert  Tlossack  stood  together  at 
the  binnacle.  An  immense  wave  came  rolling  behind,  and 
they  had  but  barely  time    to  clutch  to  the  nearest  hold 


322  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

when  it  broke  over  them  half-mast  high,  sweeping  spars, 
bulwarks,  cordage,  all  before  it  in  its  course.  It  passed, 
but  the  vessel  rose  not.  Her  deck  remained  buried  in  a 
sheet  of  foam,  and  she  seemed  settling  down  by  the  head. 
There  was  a  frightful  pause.  First,  however,  the  bowsprit 
and  the  beams  of  the  windlass  began  to  emerge  ;  next  the 
forecastle,  —  the  vessel  seemed  as  if  shaking  herself  from 
the  load,  —  and  then  the  whole  deck  appeared,  as  she 
went  tilting  over  the  next  wave.  "  There  are  still  more 
mercies  in  store  for  us,"  said  M'lver,  addressing  his  com- 
panion ;  "she  floats  still."  "O  Saunders!  Saunders!"  ex- 
claimed Robert,  "  there  was  surely  some  God's  soul  at 
work  for  us,  or  she  would  never  have  cowed  yon." 

There  is  a  somewhat  similar  stoi'y  told  of  two  of  Mr. 
Forsyth's  boatmen.  They  were  brothers,  and  of  a  much 
lighter  character  than  Saunders  and  his  companion  ;  but 
their  mother,  who  was  old  and  bed-ridden,  was  a  person 
of  singular  piety.  They  had  left  her,  when  setting  out  on 
one  of  their  Caithness  voyages,  in  so  low  a  state  that  they 
could  scarce  entertain  any  hope  of  again  seeing  her  in  life. 
On  their  return  they  were  Avrecked  on  the  rocky  coast  of 
Tarbat,  and  it  was  with  much  difficulty  that  they  suc- 
ceeded in  saving  their  lives.  "  O  brother,  lad  !  "  said  the 
one  to  the  other,  on  reaching  the  shore,  "  our  poor  old 
mither  is  gone  at  last,  or  yon  widna  have  happened  us. 
We  maun  just  be  learning  to  pray  for  ourselves."  And 
the  inference,  says  the  story,  was  correct ;  for  the  good  old 
woman  had  died  about  half  an  hour  before  the  accident 
occurred. 


THE    SCOTCH    MERCHANT.  323 


CHAPTER    VII. 


Soft  as  the  memory  of  buried  love, 

Pure  as  the  prayer  which  childhood  wafts  above, 

Was  she. 

Byron. 


Unmarried  men  of  warm  affections  and  social  habits 
begin  often,  after  turning  their  fortieth  year,  to  feel  them- 
selves too  much  alone  in  the  world  for  happiness,  and  to 
look  forward  with  more  of  fear  than  of  desire  to  a  solitary 
and  friendless  old  age.  William  Forsyth,  a  man  of  the 
kindliest  feelings,  on  completing  his  forty-first  year  was 
still  a  widower.  His  mother  had  declined  into  the  vale  of 
life  ;  his  two  brothers  had  settled  down,  as  has  been  al- 
ready related,  in  distant  parts  of  the  country.  There  were 
occasional  gaps,  too,  occurring  in  the  circle  in  which  he 
moved.  Disease,  decay,  and  accident  kept  up  the  continual 
draught  of  death  ;  friends  and  familiar  faces  were  drop- 
ping away  and  disappearing;  and  he  began  to  find  that 
lie  was  growing  too  solitary  for  his  own  peace.  The 
wound,  however,  which  his  affections  had  sustained,  rather 
more  than  ten  years  before,  had  been  gradually  closing 
under  the  softening  influence  of  time.  The  warmth  of  his 
affections  and  the  placidity  of  his  temper  fitted  him  in  a 
peculiar  manner  for  domestic  happiness;  and  it  was  his 
great  good  fortune  to  meet,  about  this  period,  with  a  lady 
through  whom,  all  unwittingly  on  her  own  part,  he  was 
taught    to    regard    himself  as    no   longer    solitary    in    the 


324  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

present,  nor  devoid  of  hope  for  the  future.     He  was  happy 
in  his  attachment,  and  early  in  1764  she  became  his  wife. 

Miss  Elizabeth  Grant,  daughter  of  tho  Rev.  Patrick 
Grant  of  Duthel,  in  Strathspey,  and  of  Isabella  Kerr  of 
Ruthven  Manse,  was  born  in  Duthel  in  the  year  1712,  and 
removed  to  Nigg,  in  Ross-shire,  about  twelve  years  after, 
on  the  induction  of  her  father  into  that  parish.  Her  char- 
acter was  as  little  a  common  one  as  that  of  Mr.  Forsyth 
himself.  Seldom  indeed  does  nature  produce  a  finer  in- 
tellect, never  a  warmer  or  more  compassionate  heart.  It 
is  rarely  that  the  female  mind  educates  itself.  The  genius 
of  the  sex  is  rather  fine  than  robust ;  it  partakes  rather  of 
the  delicacy  of  the  myrtle  than  the  strength  of  the  oak, 
and  care  and  culture  seem  essential  to  its  full  develop- 
ment. There  have  been  instances,  however,  though  rare, 
of  women  working  their  almost  unassisted  way  from  the 
lower  to  the  higher  levels  of  intelligence  ;  and  the  history 
of  this  lady,  had  she  devoted  her  time  more  to  the  regis- 
tration of  her  thoughts  than  to  the  duties  of  her  station, 
would  have  furnished  one  of  these.  She  was,  in  the  best 
sense  of  the  term,  an  original  thinker;  one  of  the  few  whose 
innate  vigor  of  mind  carry  them  in  search  of  truth  beyond 
the  barriers  of  the  conventional  modes  of  thought.  But 
strong  good  sense,  rising  almost  to  the  dignity  of  philoso- 
phy, a  lively  imagination,  and  a  just  and  delicate  taste, 
united  to  very  extensive  knowledge  and  nice  discernment, 
though  these  rendered  her  conversation  the  delight  of  the 
circle  in  which  she  moved,  formed  but  the  subordinate 
excellences  of  her  character.  She  was  one  of  the  truly 
good,  the  friend  of  her  species  and  of  her  God.  A  diary, 
found  among  her  papers  after  her  death,  and  now  in  the 
possession  of  her  friends,  shows  that  the  transcript  of  duty 
which  her  life  afforded  was  carefully  collated  every  day 


THE    SCOTCH    MERCHANT.  325 

with  the  perfect  copy  with  which  Revelation  supplied  her, 
and  her  every  thought,  word,  and  action,  laid  open  to  the 
eye  of  Omniscience.  In  the  expressive  language  of  Scrip- 
ture, siie  was  one  of  those  "  who  walk  with  God."  There 
was  nought,  however,  of  harshness  or  austerity  in  her 
religion.  It  formed  the  graceful  and  appropriate  garb  of  a 
tender-hearted  and  beautiful  woman  of  engaging  manners 
and  high  talent.  With  this  lady  Mr.  Forsyth  enjoyed  all 
of  good  and  happiness  that  the  married  state  can  afford, 
for  the  long  period  of  thirty-six  years. 

His  life  was  a  busy  one  ;  his  very  pleasures  were  all  of 
the  active  kind;  and  yet,  notwithstanding  his  numerous 
ensasrements,  it  was  remarked  that  there  were  few  men 
who  contrived  to  find  more  spare  time  than  Mr.  Forsyth, 
or  who  could  devote  half  a  day  more  readily  to  the  service 
of  a  friend  or  neighbor.  But  his  leisure  hours  were  hardly 
and  fairly  earned.  He  rose  regularly,  winter  ami  summer, 
between  live  and  six  o'clock,  lighted  his  office-lire,  if  the 
weather  was  cold,  wrote  out  his  letters  for  the  day,  ami 
brought  lip  his  books  to  the  latest  period.  Ere  the  family 
was  summoned  to  breakfast  he  was  generally  well  nigh  the 
conclusion  of  his  mercantile  labors.  The  family  then 
met  for  morning  prayer  ;  for,  like  the  Cotter  in  Burns, 
Mr.  Forsyth  was  the  priest  of  his  household,  and  led  in 
their  devotions  morning  and  evening.  An  hour  or  two 
more  spent  in  his  office  set  him  free  for  the  remainder  of 
the  day  from  labor  on  his  own  behalf;  the  rest  he  devoted 
to  the  good  of  others  and  his  own  amusement.  Once  a 
month  li<-  held  a  regular  Justice  of  Peace  Court,  in  which 
he  was  occasionally  assisted  by  some  of  the  neighboring 
proprietors,  whose  names,  like  his  own,  were  on  the  com- 
mission of  the  peace.  But  the  age  was  a  rude  one;  and 
differences  were  so  frequently  occurring  among  the  people 

28 


326  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

that  there  were  few  days  in  which  his  time  was  not  occu- 
pied from  twelve  till  two  in  his  honored  capacity  of 
peace-maker  for  the  place.  The  evening  was  more  his  own. 
Sometimes  he  superintended  the  lading  or  unlading  of  his 
vessels  ;  sometimes  he  walked  out  into  the  country  to  visit 
his  humble  friends  in  the  landward  part  of  the  parish,  and 
see  how  they  were  getting  on  with  their  spinning.  There 
was  not  a  good  old  man  or  woman  within  six  miles  of  Cro- 
marty, however  depressed  by  poverty,  that  Mr.  Forsyth 
did  not  reckon  among  the  number  of  his  acquaintance. 

Of  all  his  humble  friends,  however,  one  pf  the  most  re- 
spected, and  most  frequently  visited  by  him,  was  a  pious, 
though  somewhat  eccentric,  old  woman,  who  lived  nil 
alone  in  a  little  solitary  cottage  beside  the  sea,  rather  more 
than  two  miles  to  the  west  of  the  town,  and  who  was 
known  to  the  people  of  the  place  as  Meggie  o'  the  Shore. 
Meggie  was  one  of  the  truly  excellent,  — a  person  in  whom 
the  Durhams  and  Rutherfords  of  a  former  age  would  have 
delighted.  There  was  no  doubt  somewhat  of  harshness 
in  her  opinions,  and  of  credulity  in  her  beliefs  ;  but  never 
were  there  opinions  or  beliefs  more  conscientiously  held  ; 
and  the  general  benevolence  of  her  disposition  served  won- 
derfully to  soften  in  practice  all  her  theoretical  asperities. 
She  was  ailing  and  poor ;  and  as  she  was  advancing  iij 
years,  and  her  health  became  more  broken,  her  little  earn- 
ings—  for  she  was  one  of  Mr.  Forsyth's  spinners —  were 
still  growing  less.  Meggie,  however,  had  "come  of  decent 
people,"  though  their  heads  had  all  been  laid  low  in  the 
churchyard  long  ere  now;  and  though  she  was  by  far  too 
orthodox  to  believe,  with  the  son  of  Sirach,  that  it  "  is 
better  to  die  than  to  beg,"  it  was  not  a  thing  to  be  thought 
of  that  she  should  do  dishonor  to  the  memory  of  the 
departed  by  owing  a  single  meal  to  the  charity  of  the 


TLE    SCOTCH    MERCHANT.  327 

parish.  She  toiled  on,  therefore,  as  she  best  could,  content 
with  the  merest  pittance,  and  complained  to  no  one.  Mr. 
Forsyth,  who  thoroughly  understood  the  character,  and 
appreciated  its  value,  and  who  knew,  withal,  how  wretch- 
edly inadequate  Meggie's  earnings  were  to  her  support, 
contrived  on  one  occasion  to  visit  her  early,  and  to  stay 
late,  in  the  hope  of  being  invited  to  eat  with  her;  for 
in  her  more  prosperous  days  there  were  few  of  her  vis- 
itors suffered  to  leave  her  cottage  until,  as  she  herself 
used  to  express  it,  they  had  first  broken  bread.  At  this 
time,  however,  there  was  no  sign  of  the  expected  invita- 
tion ;  and  it  was  not  until  Mr.  Forsyth  had  at  length  risen 
to  come  away  that  Meggie  asked  him  hesitatingly  whether 
he  would  "no  tak'  some  refreshment  afore  he  went?" 

"I  have  just  been  waiting  to  say  yes,"  said  the  mer- 
chant, sitting  down  again.  Meggie  placed  before  him  a 
half-cake  of  barley-bread  and  a  jug  of  water. 

"  It  was  the  feast  of  the  promise,"  she  said  ;  '"thy  bread 
shall  be  given  thee,  and  thy  water  shall  be  sure.'  " 

The  merchant  saw  that,  in  her  effort  to  be  hospitable, 
she  had  exhausted  her  larder;  and,  without  remarking  that 
the  portion  was  rather  a  scanty  one,  partook  with  appar- 
ent relish  of  his  share  of  the  half-cake.  But  he  took 
especial  care  from  that  time  forward  till  the  death  of  Meg- 
gie, which  did  not  take  place  till  about  eight  years  after, 
that  her  feasts  should  not  be  so  barely  and  literally  feasts 
of  the  promise. 

.Mr.  Forsyth,  in  the  midst  of  his  numerous  engagements, 
found  leisure  for  a  f^w  days  every  year  to  visit  his  rela- 
tives in  Moray.  The  family  of  his  paternal  grandfather, 
a  firmer  of  Elginshire,  had  been  a  numerous  one;  and  he 
had  an  uncle  settled  in  Elgin  as  a  merchant  and  general 
dealer  who  was  not  a  great  many  years  older  than   him- 


328  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

self.  For  the  judgment  of  this  gentleman  Mr.  Forsyth 
entertained  the  highest  respect,  and  he  rarely  engaged  in 
any  new  undertaking  without  first  consulting  him.  In- 
deed, a  general  massiveness  of  intellect  and  force  of 
character  seemed  characteristic  of  the  family,  and  these 
qualities  the  well-known  work  of  this  gentleman's  son, 
"  Forsyth's  Italy,"  serves  happily  to  illustrate.  There  is 
perhaps  no  book  of  travels  in  the  language  in  which  the 
thoughts  lie  so  closely,  or  in  the  perusal  of  which  the 
reader,  after  running  over  the  first  few  chapters,  gives 
himself  up  so  entirely  to  the  judgment  of  the  author.  The 
work  is  now  in  its  fourth  edition ;  and  a  biographical  me- 
moir of  the  writer,  appended  to  it  by  his  younger  brother, 
Mr.  Isaac  Forsyth  of  Elgin,  shows  how  well  and  pleasingly 
the  latter  gentleman  could  have  written  had  he  employed 
in  literature  those  talents  which  have  rendered  him,  like 
his  father  and  his  cousin,  eminently  successful  in  business. 
When  on  one  of  his  yearly  visits,  Mr.  Forsyth  inquired 
of  his  uncle  whether  he  could  not  point  out  to  him,  among 
his  juvenile  acquaintance  in  Elgin,  some  steady  young  lad, 
of  good  parts,  whom  he  might  engage  as  an  assistant  in 
his  business  at  Cromarty.  Its  more  mechanical  details, 
he  said,  were  such  as  he  himself  could  perhaps  easily 
master ;  but  then,  occupying  his  time  as  they  did,  without 
employing  his  mind,  they  formed  a  sort  of  drudgery  of 
the  profession,  for  which  he  thought  it  might  prove  in  the 
end  a  piece  of  economy  to  pay.  His  uncle  acquiesced  in 
the  remark,  and  recommended  to  his  notice  an  ingenious 
young  lad  who  had  just  left  school,  after  distinguishing 
himself  by  his  attainments  as  a  scholar,  and  who  was  now 
living  unemployed  with  some  friends  at  Elgin.  The  lad 
was  accordingly  introduced  to  Mr.  Forsyth,  who  was 
much  pleased  with  his  appearance  and  the  simple  ingenu- 


THE    SCOTCH    MERCHANT.  329 

ousness  of  his  manners,  and  on  his  return  he  brought  him 
with  him  to  Cromarty. 

Charles  Grant,  for  so  the  young  man  was  called,  soon 
became  much  a  favorite  with  Mr.  Forsyth  and  his  family, 
and  was  treated  by  them  rather  as  a  son  than  a  dependant. 
He  had  a  taste  for  reading,  and  Mr.  Forsyth  furnished  him 
with  books.  He  introduced  him,  too,  to  all  his  more  in- 
telligent and  more  influential  friends,  and  was  alike  liberal 
in  assisting  him,  as  the  case  chanced  to  require,  with  his 
purse  and  his  advice.  The  young  man  proved  himself  em- 
inently worthy  of  the  kindness  he  received.  He  possessed 
a  mind  singularly  well  balanced  in  all  its  faculties,  moral 
and  intellectual.  He  added  great  quickness  to  great  perse- 
verance ;  much  warmth  and  kindliness  of  feeling  to  an  un- 
yielding rectitude  of  principle  ;  and  strong  good  sense  to 
the  poetical  temperament.  He  remained  with  Mr.  Forsyth 
for  about  five  years,  and  then  parted  from  him  for  some 
better  appointment  in  London,  which  he  owed  to  his 
friendship.  It  would  be  no  unprofitable  or  uninteresting 
task  to  trace  his  after  course;  but  the  outlines  of  his  his- 
tory are  already  known  to  most  of  my  readers.  His  ex- 
tensive knowledge  and  very  superior  talents  rendered  his 
services  eminently  useful;  his  known  integrity  procured 
him  respect  and  confidence  ;  the  goodness  of  his  disposition 
endeared  him  to  an  extensive  and  ever-widening  circle 
of  friends.  He  rose  gradually  through  a  series  of  employ- 
ments, each,  in  progression,  more  important  and  honorable 
than  the  one  which  had  preceded  it.  He  filled  for  many 
years  the  chair  of  the  honorable  East  India  Company's 
Court  of  Directors,  and  represented  the  county  of  Inver- 
ness in  several  successive  parliaments  ;  and  of  two  of  his 
sons,  one  has  had  the  dignity  of  knighthood  conferred 
upon  him  for  his  public  services,  and  the  other  occupies  an 
28* 


330  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

honorable,  because  well-earned,  place  among  the  British 
peerage.  Mr.  Grant  continued  through  life  to  cherish  the 
memory  of  his  benefactor,  and  to  show  even  in  old  ao-e 
the  most  marked  and  assiduous  attentions  to  the  surviving 
members  of  his  family.  He  procured  writerships  for  two 
of  his  sons,  John  and  Patrick  Forsyth;  and,  at  a  time 
when  his  acquaintance  extended  over  all  the  greater  mer- 
chants of  Europe,  he  used  to  speak  of  him  as  a  man  whose 
judgment  and  probity,  joined  to  his  singularly  liberal  views 
and  truly  generous  sentiments,  would  have  conferred  honor 
on  the  magisterial  chair  of  the  first  commercial  city  of 
the  world.  It  was  when  residing  in  the  family  of  Wil- 
liam Forsyth  that  Mr.  Grant  first  received  those  serious 
impressions  of  the  vital  importance  of  religion  which  so 
influenced  his  conduct  through  life,  and  to  which  he  is 
said  to  have  given  expression,  when  on  the  verge  of 
another  world,  in  one  of  the  finest  hymns  in  the  language. 
Need  I  apologize  to  the  reader  for  introducing  it  here  ? 


HYMN. 

With  years  oppressed,  with  sorrows  worn, 
Dejected,  harassed,  sick,  forlorn, 

To  thee,  O  God!  I  pray; 
To  thee  these  withered  hands  arise; 
To  thee  I  lift  these  failing  eyes;  — 

Oh,  cast  me  not  away. 


Thy  mercy  heard  my  infant  prayer; 
Thy  love,  with  all  a  mother's  care, 

Sustained  my  childish  days; 
Thy  goodness  watched  my  ripening  youth, 
And  formed  my  soul  to  love  thy  truth, 

And  filled  my  heart  with  praise. 


THE   SCOTCH   MERCHANT.  331 

O!  Saviour, has  thy  grace  declined? 
Can  years  affect  the  Eternal  Mind, 

Or  time  its  love  decay? 
A  thousand  ages  pass  thy  sight, 
And  all  their  long  and  weary  flight 

Is  gone  like  yesterday. 

Then,  even  in  age  and  grief,  thy  name 
Shall  still  my  languid  heart  inflame, 

And  bow  my  faltering  knee. 
O,  yet  this  bosom  feels  the  fire, 
This  trembling  hand  and  drooping  lyre 

Have  yet  a  strain  for  thee. 

Yes,  broken,  tuneless,  still,  O  Lord! 
This  voice,  transported,  shall  record 

Thy  bounty,  tried  so  long; 
Till,  sinking  slow,  with  calm  decay, 
Its  feeble  murmurs  melt  away 

Into  seraphic  song. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 


Good  is  no  good  but  if  it  be  spend ; 
God  giveth  good  for  none  other  end. 

Spenser. 


The  year  1772  was  a  highly  important  one  to  the  people 
of  Cromarty.  By  far  the  greater  part  of  the  parish  is  oc- 
cupied by  one  large  and  very  valuable  property,  which, 
after  remaining  in  the  possession  of  one  family  for  nearly 
a  thousand  years,  had  passed  in  little  more  than  a  century 
through  a  full  half-dozen.     It  was  purchased  in  the  latter 


332  TALES   AND     SKETCHES. 

part  of  this  year  by  George  Ross,  a  native  of  Ross-shire, 
who  had  realized  an  immense  fortune  in  England  as  an 
army  agent.  He  was  one  of  those  benefactors  of  the 
species  who  can  sow  liberally  in  the  hope  of  a  late  harvest 
for  others  to  reap;  and  the  townspeople,  even  the  poorest 
and  least  active,  were  soon  made  to  see  that  they  had  got 
a  neighbor  who  would  suffer  them  to  be  idle  or  wretched 
no  lonsrer. 

He  found  in  William  Forsyth  a  man  after  his  own  heart; 
one  with  whom  to  concert  and  advise,  and  who  entered 
warmly  into  all  his  well-laid  schemes  for  awakening  the 
energies  and  developing  the  yet  untried  resources  of  the 
country.  The  people  seemed  more  than  half  asleep  around 
them.  The  mechanic  spent  well-nigh  two  thirds  of  his 
time  in  catching  fish  and  cultivating  his  little  croft ;  the 
farmer  raised  from  his  shapeless  party-colored  patches,  of 
an  acre  or  two  apiece,  the  same  sort  of  half-crops  that  had 
satisfied  his  grandfather.  The  only  trade  in  the  country 
was  originated  and  carried  on  by  Mr.  Forsyth,  and  its  only 
manufacture  the  linen  one  which  he  superintended.  In 
this  state  of  things,  it  was  the  part  assigned  to  himself 
by  the  benevolent  and  patriotic  Agent,  now  turned  of 
seventy,  to  revolutionize  and  give  a  new  spirit  to  the 
whole ;  and  such  was  his  untiring  zeal  and  statesman-like 
sagacity  that  he  fully  succeeded. 

One  of  his  first  gifts  to  the  place  was  a  large  and  commo- 
dious pier  for  the  accommodation  of  trading  vessels.  He 
then  built  an  extensive  brewery,  partly  with  the  view  to 
check  the  trade  in  smuggling,  which  prevailed  at  this  time 
in  the  north  of  Scotland  to  an  enormous  extent,  and  partly 
to  open  a  new  market  to  the  farmers  for  the  staple  grain  of 
the  country.  The  project  succeeded  ;  and  the  Agent's  ex- 
cellent ale  supplanted  in  no  small  measure,  from  Aberdeen 


THE    SCOTCH    MERCHANT.  383 

to  John  O'Groat's,  the  gins  and  brandies  of  the  Continent. 
He  then  established  a  hempen  manufactory,  which  has 
ever  since  employed  about  two  hundred  people  within  its 
walls,  and  fully  twice  that  number  without ;  and  set  on 
foot  a  trade  in  pork,  which  has  paid  the  rents  of  half  the 
widows'  cottages  in  the  country  for  the  last  forty  years, 
and  is  still  carried  on  by  the  traders  of  the  place  to  an  ex- 
tent of  from  fifteen  to  twenty  thousand  pounds  annually. 
He  established  a  nail  and  spade  manufactory  ;  brought 
women  from  England  to  instruct  the  young  girls  in  the  art 
of  working  lace;  provided  houses  for  the  poor;  presented 
the  town  with  a  neat,  substantial  building,  the  upper  part 
of  which  serves  as  a  council-room,  and  the  lower  as  a  prison  ; 
and  built  for  the  accommodation  of  the  poor  Highlanders, 
who  came  thronging  into  the  town  to  work  on  his  lands  or 
in  his  manufactories,  a  handsome  Gaelic  chapel.  He  set 
himself,  too,  to  initiate  his  tenantry  in  the  art  of  rearing 
wheat  ;  and  finding  them  wofully  unwilling  to  become 
wiser  on  the  subject,  he  tried  the  force  of  example,  by  tak- 
ing an  extensive  farm  under  his  own  management,  and 
conducting  it  on  the  most  approved  principles  of  modern 
agriculture.  It  is  truly  wonderful  how  much  may  be 
effected  by  the  well-directed  energies  of  one  benevolent 
and  vigorous  mind.  It  is  to  individuals,  not  masses,  that 
the  species  owe  their  advancement  in  the  scale  of  civiliza- 
tion  and  rationality.  George  Ross  was  a  7nan  far  advanced 
in  life  when  he  purchased  the  lands  of  Cromarty,  and  he 
held  them  for  but  fourteen  years,  for  he  died  in  1786,  at 
the  great  age  of  eighty-five;  and  yet  in  these  few  years, 
which  might  be  regarded  as  but  the  fag-end  of  a  busy  life, 
he  did  more  for  the  north  of  Scotland  than  had  been  ac- 
complished by  all  its  other  proprietors  put  together  since 
the  death  of  President  Forbes. 


334  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

Mr.  Forsyth  was  ever  ready  to  second  the  benevolent 
and  well-laid  schemes  of  the  Agent.  He  purchased  shares 
in  his  hempen  manufactory,  —  for  Mr.  Ross,  the  more 
widely  to  extend  its  interests,  had  organized  a  company  to 
carry  it  on  —  and  took  a  fine  snug  farm  in  the  neighborhood 
of  the  town  into  his  own  hands,  to  put  into  practice  all  he 
had  learned  of  the  new  system  of  farming.  Agriculture 
was  decidedly  one  of  the  most  interesting  studies  of  the 
period.  It  was  still  a  field  of  experiment  and  discovery  ; 
new  principles,  little  dreamed  of  by  our  ancestors,  were 
elicited  every  year ;  and  though  there  were  hundreds  of 
intelligent  minds  busy  in  exploring  it,  much  remained  a 
sort  of  terra  incognita  notwithstanding.  Mr.  Forsyth 
soon  became  a  zealous  and  successful  farmer,  and  spent 
nearly  as  much  of  his  evenings  in  his  fields  as  he  did  of  his 
mornings  in  his  counting-house.  The  farmers  around  him 
were  wedded  to  their  old  prejudices,  but  the  merchant 
had  nothing  to  unlearn  ;  and  though  his  neighbors  smiled 
at  first  to  see  him  rearing  green  crops  of  comparatively 
little  value  from  lands  for  which  he  paid  a  high  rent,  or, 
more  inexplicable  still,  paying  the  rent  and  suffering  the 
lands  to  lie  fallow,  they  could  not  avoid  being  convinced 
at  last  that  he  was  actually  raising  more  corn  than  any 
of  themselves.  Though  essentially  a  practical  man,  and 
singularly  sober  and  judicious  in  all  his  enterprises,  his 
theoretical  speculations  were  frequently  of  a  bolder  char- 
acter ;  and  he  had  delighted  in  reasoning  on  the  causes 
of  the  various  phenomena  with  which  his  new  study  pre- 
sented him.  The  exhaustive  propei'ties  of  some  kinds 
of  crop  ;  the  restorative  qualities  of  others  ;  the  mys- 
teries of  the  vegetative  pabulum ;  its  well-marked  distinct- 
ness from  the  soil  which  contains  it ;  how,  after  one  variety 
of  grain  has  appropriated  its  proper  nourishment,  and  then 


THE   SCOTCH   MERCHANT.  335 

languished  for  lack  of  sustenance,  another  variety  continues 
to  draw  its  food  from  the  same  tract,  and  after  that,  per- 
haps, yet  another  variety  more  ;  how,  at  length,  the  pro- 
ductive matter  is  so  exhausted  that  all  is  barrenness,  until, 
after  the  lapse  of  years,  it  is  found  to  have  accumulated 
again,  —  all  these,  with  the  other  mysteries  of  vegetation, 
furnished  him  with  interesting  subjects  of  thought  and 
inquiry.  One  of  the  best  and  largest  of  his  fields  was  situ- 
ated on  the  edge  of  that  extensive  tract  of  table-land  which 
rises  immediately  above  the  town,  and  commands  so  pleas- 
ing a  prospect  of  the  bay  and  the  opposite  shore ;  and  from 
time  immemorial  the  footpath  which  skirts  its  lower  edge, 
and  overlooks  the  sea,  had  been  a  favorite  promenade  of 
the  inhabitants.  What,  however,  was  merely  a  footpath  in 
the  early  part  of  each  season,  grew  broad  enough  for  a  car- 
riage-road before  autumn  ;  and  much  of  Mr.  Forsyth's  best 
braird  was  trampled  down  and  destroyed  every  year.  His 
ploughman  would  fain  have  excluded  the  walkers,  and 
hinted  at  the  various  uses  of  traps  and  spring-guns;  at  any 
rate,  he  said,  he  was  determined  to  build  up  the  slap  ;  but 
the  merchant,  though  he  commended  his  zeal,  negatived 
the  proposal ;  and  so  the  slap  was  suffered  to  remain  un- 
built. On  sometimes  meeting  with  parties  of  the  more 
juvenile  saunterers,  he  has  gravely  cautioned  them  to  avoid 
his  ploughman  Donald  M'Candie.  Donald,  he  would  say, 
was  a  cross-grained  old  man,  as  they  all  knew,  and  might 
both  frighten  them  and  hurt  himself  in  running  after  them. 
Mr.  Forsyth  retained  the  farm  until  his  death  ;  and  it 
shows  in  some  little  degree  the  estimation  in  which  he  was 
held  by  the  people,  that  his  largest  field,  though  it  has 
repeatedly  changed  its  tenant  since  then,  still  retains  the 
name  of  Mi*.  Forsyth's  Park. 

Shortly  after  he  had  engaged  with  the  farm,  Mr.  For- 


336  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

syth  built  for  himself  a  neat  and  very  commodious  house, 
which,  at  the  time  of  its  erection,  was  beyond  comparison 
the  best  in  the  place,  and  planted  a  large  and  very  fine 
garden.  Both  serve  to  show  how  completely  this  mer- 
chant of  the  eighteenth  century  had  anticipated  the  im- 
provements of  the  nineteenth.  There  are  not  loftier  nor 
better-proportioned  rooms  in  the  place,  larger  windows,  nor 
easier  stairs ;  and  his  garden  is  such  a  one  as  would  satisfy 
an  Englishman  of  the  present  day.  These  are  perhaps  but 
little  matters.  They  serve,  however,  to  show  the  taste  and 
judgment  of  the  man. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

'Tis  not  that  rural  sports  alone  invite, 
But  all  the  grateful  country  breathes  delight; 
Here  blooming  Health  exerts  her  gentle  reign, 
And  strings  the  sinews  of  the  industrious  swain. 

Gat. 

T  am  not  of  opinion  that  the  people  of  the  north  of  Scot- 
land are  less  happy  in  the  present  age  than  in  the  age  or 
two  which  immediately  preceded  it ;  but  I  am  certain  they 
are  not  half  so  merry.  We  may  not  have  less  to  amuse  us 
than  our  fathers  had ;  but  our  amusements  somehow  seem 
less  hearty,  and  are  a  great  deal  less  noisy,  and,  instead  of 
interesting  the  entire  community,  are  confined  to  insulated 
parties  and  single  individuals.  A  whole  hecatcomb  of  wild 
games  have  been  sacrificed  to  the  genius  of  trade  and  the 
wars  of  the  French  Revolution.     The  age  of  holidays  is 


THE    SCOTCH    MERCHANT.  387 

clean  gone  by  ;  the  practical  joke  has  been  extinct  for  the 
last  fifty  years  ;  and  we  have  to  smuggle  the  much  amuse- 
ment which  we  still  contrive  to  elicit  from  out  the  eccen- 
tricities of  our  neighbors,  as  secretly  as  if  it  were  the 
subject  of  a  tax. 

In  the  early  and  more  active  days  of  Mr.  Forsyth,  the 
national  and  manly  exercise  of  golf  was  the  favorite  amuse- 
ment of  the  gentlemen  ;  and  Cromarty,  whose  links  fur- 
nished a  fitting  scene  for  the  sport,  was  the  meeting-place 
of  one  of  the  most  respectable  golf-clubs  in  the  country. 
Sir  Charles  Ross  of  Balnagown,  Sheriff  M'Leod  of  Geanis, 
Mr.  Forsyth  and  the  Lairds  of  Newhall,  Pointzfield,  and 
Braelanguil  were  among  its  members.  Both  the  sheriff 
and  Sir  Charles  were  very  powerful  men,  and  good  players. 
It  was  remarked,  however,  that  neither  of  them  dealt  a  more 
skilful  or  more  vigorous  blow  than  Mr.  Forsyth,  whose 
frame,  though  not  much  above  the  middle  size,  was  sin- 
gularly compact  and  muscular.  He  excelled,  too,  in  his 
younger  days,  in  all  the  other  athletic  games  of  the  coun- 
try. Few  men  threw  a  longer  bowl,  or  pitched  the  stone 
or  the  bar  further  beyond  the  ordinary  bound.  Every 
meeting  of  the  golf-players  cost  him  a  dinner  and  a  dozen 
or  two  of  his  best  wine;  for,  invariably,  when  they  had 
finished  their  sport  for  Jhe  day,  they  adjourned  to  his  1 
pitable  board,  and  the  evening  passed  in  mirth  and  jollity. 
Some  of  the  anecdotes  which  furnished  part  of  their  laugh- 
ter on  these  occasions  still  survive ;  and,  with  the  assist  ance 
of  the  wine,  they  must  have  served  the  purpose  wonderfully 
well.  All  the  various  casks  and  boxes  used  by  Mr.  For- 
syth in  his  trade  were  marked  with  his  initials  W.  F.,  that 
he  might  be  the  better  able  to  identify  them.  They  were 
sometimes  suffered  so  to  accumulate  in  the  outhouses  of 
the  neighboring  proprietors,  that  they  met  the  eye  at  every 
29 


338  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

turning ;  and  at  no  place  was  this  more  the  case  than  at 
Puintzfield.  On  one  occasion  a  swarm  of  Mr.  Forsyth's 
bees  took  flight  in  the  same  direction.  They  flew  due  west 
along  the  shore,  followed  by  a  servant,  and  turned  to  the 
south  at  the  Pointzfield  woods,  where  the  pursuer  lost 
sight  of  them.  In  about  half  an  hour  after,  however,  a 
swarm  of  bees  were  discovered  in  the  proprietor's  garden, 
and  the  servant  came  to  claim  them  in  the  name  of  his 
master. 

"On  what  pretence?"  demanded  the  proprietor. 

"  Simply,"  said  the  man,  "  because  my  master  lost  a 
swarm  to-day,  which  I  continued  to  follow  to  the  begin- 
ning of  the  avenue  yonder;  and  these  cannot  be  other 
than  his." 

"Nonsense,"  replied  the  proprietor.  "  Had  they  belonged 
to  your  master  they  would  have  been  marked  by  the  W.  F., 
every  one  of  them." 

Eventually,  however,  Mr.  Forsyth  got  his  bees ;  but 
there  were  few  golf-meetings  at  which  the  story  was  not 
cited  against  him  by  way  of  proof  that  there  were  occa- 
sions when  even  he,  with  all  his  characteristic  forethought, 
could  be  as  careless  as  other  men. 

It  was  chiefly  in  his  capacity  of  magistrate,  however, 
that  Mr.  Forsyth  was  brought  acquainted  with  the  wilder 
humors  of  the  place.  Some  of  the  best  jokes  of  the  towns- 
men were  exceedingly  akin  to  felonies  ;  and  as  the  injured 
persons  were  in  every  case  all  the  angrier  for  being  laughed 
at,  they  generally  applied  for  redress  to  their  magistrate. 
There  is  a  transition  stage  in  society,  —  a  stage  between 
barbarism  and  civilization,  —  in  which,  through  one  of  the 
unerring  instincts  of  our  nature,  men  employ  their  sense  of 
the  ludicrous  in  laughing  one  another  into  propriety;  and 
such  was  the  stage  at  which  society  had  arrived   in  the 


THE    SCOTCH   MERCHANT.  339 

north  of  Scotland  in  at  least  the  earlier  part  of  Mr.  For- 
syth's career.  Cromarty  was,  in  consequence,  a  merry  little 
place,  though  the  merriment  was  much  on  the  one  side,  and 
of  a  wofully  selfish  character.  The  young,  like  those  hunt- 
ing parties  of  Norway  that  band  together  for  the  purpose 
of  ridding  their  forests  of  the  bears,  used  in  the  long  winter 
evenings  to  go  prowling  about  the  streets  in  quest  of  some- 
thing that  might  be  teased  and  laughed  at ;  the  old,  though 
less  active  in  the  pursuit,  —  for  they  kept  to  their  houses, 
—  resembled  the  huntsmen  of  the  same  country  who  lie  in 
wait  for  the  passing  animal  on  the  tops  of  trees.  Their 
passion  for  the  ludicrous  more  than  rivalled  the  Athenian 
rage  for  the  new  ;  and  while  each  one  laughed  at  his  neigh- 
bor, he  took  all  care  to  avoid  being  laughed  at  in  turn. 

The  poor  fishermen  of  the  place,  from  circumstances  con- 
nected with  their  profession,  were  several  degrees  lower  in 
the  scale  of  civilization  than  most  of  their  neighbors.  The 
herring-fishery  had  not  yet  taught  them  to  speculate,  nor 
were  there  Sabbath  schools  to  impart  to  them  the  elements 
of  learning  and  good  manners ;  and  though  there  might 
be,  perhaps,  one  of  fifty  among  them  possessed  of  a  smat- 
tering of  Latin,  it  was  well  if  a  tithe  of  the  remaining 
forty-nine  had  learned  to  read.  They  were,  however,  a 
simple,  inoffensive  race  of  people,  whose  quarrels,  like  their 
marriages  —  for  they  quarrelled  often,  though  at  a  small 
expense  —  were  restricted  to  their  own  class,  and  who, 
though  perhaps  little  acquainted  with  the  higher  standards 
of  right,  had  a  code  of  foolish  superstitions,  which,  strange 
as  it  may  seem,  served  almost  the  same  end.  They  re- 
spected an  oath,  in  the  belief  that  no  one  had  ever  per- 
jured himself  and  thriven  ;  regarded  the  murderer  as  ex- 
posed to  the  terrible  visitations  of  his  victim,  and  the  thief 
as  a  person  doomed  to  a  down  look  /  reverenced  the  Bible 


340  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

as  a  protection  from  witchcraft,  and  baptism  as  a  charm 
against  the  fairies.  Their  simplicity,  their  ignorance,  their 
superstition,  laid  them  open  to  a  thousaud  petty  annoy- 
ances from  the  wags  of  the  town.  They  had  a  belief,  long 
since  extinct,  that  if,  when  setting  out  for  the  fishing,  one 
should  interrogate  them  regarding  their  voyage,  there  was 
little  chance  of  their  getting  on  with  it  without  meeting 
with  some  disaster;  and  it  was  a  common  trick  with  the 
youngsters  to  run  down  to  the  water's  edge,  just  as  they 
were  betaking  themselves  to  their  oars,  and  shout  out, 
"  Men,  men,  where  are  you  going  ?  "  They  used,  too,  to 
hover  about  their  houses  after  dark,  and  play  all  manner  of 
tricks,  such  as  blocking  up  their  chimney  with  turf  and 
stealthily  filling  their  water-stoups  with  salt-water  just  as 
they  were  about  setting  on  their  brochan.  One  of  the  best 
jokes  of  the  period  seems  almost  too  good  to  be  forgotten. 
The  fairies  were  in  ill  repute  at  the  time,  and  long  be- 
fore, for  an  ill  practice  of  kidnapping  children  and  annoy- 
ing women  in  the  straw ;  and  no  class  of  people  could 
dread  them  more  than  fishers.  But  they  were  at  length 
cured  of  their  terrors  by  being  laughed  at.  One  evening, 
when  all  the  men  were  setting  out  for  sea,  and  all  the  wo- 
men engaged  at  the  water's  edge  in  handing  them  their 
tackle  or  launching  their  boats,  a  party  of  young  fellows, 
who  had  watched  the  opportunity,  stole  into  their  cottages, 
and,  disfurnishing  the  cradles  of  all  their  little  tenants,, 
transposed  the  children  of  the  entire  village,  leaving  a  child 
in  the  cradle  of  every  mother,  but  taking  care  that  it  should 
not  be  her  own  child.  They  then  hid  themselves,  amid  the 
ruins  of  a  deserted  hovel,  to  wait  the  result.  Up  came  the 
women  from  the  shore  ;  and,  alarmed  by  the  crying  of  the 
children  and  the  strangeness  of  their  voices,  they  went 
to  their  cradles   and  found  a   changeling  in   each.      The 


THE   SCOTCH   MERCHANT.  341 

scene  that  followed  baffles  description.  They  shrieked  and 
screamed  and  clapped  their  hands  ;  and,  rushing  out  to 
the  lanes  like  so  many  mad  creatures,  were  only  unhinged 
the  more  to  find  the  calamity  so  universal.  Down  came  the 
women  of  the  place,  to  make  inquiries  and  give  advices; 
some  recommending  them  to  have  recourse  to  the  minis- 
ter, some  to  procure  baskets  and  suspend  the  changelings 
over  the  fire, — some  one  thing,  some  another;  but  the 
poor  mothers  were  regardless  of  them  all.  They  tossed 
their  arms  and  shrieked  and  hallooed  ;  and  the  children, 
who  were  well-nigh  as  ill  at  ease  as  themselves,  added,  by 
their  cries,  to  the  confusion  and  the  uproar.  A  thought 
struck  one  of  the  townswomen.  "  I  suspect,  neighbors," 
she  said,  "that  the  loons  are  at  the  bottom  of  this.  Let's 
bring  all  the  little  ones  into  one  place,  and  see  whether 
every  mother  cannot  find  her  own  among  them."  No 
sooner  said  than  done ;  and  peace  was  restored  in  a  few 
minutes.  Mischievous  as  the  trick  was,  it  had  this  one 
effect,  that  the  fairies  were  in  less  repute  in  Cromarty  ever 
after,  and  were  never  more  charged  with  the  stealing  of 
children.  A  popular  belief  is  in  no  small  danger  when 
those  who  cherished  learn  to  laugh  at  it,  be  the  laugh 
raised  as  it  may. 

29* 


342  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 


CHAPTER  X. 


Blest  be  that  spot,  where  cheerful  guests  retire 
To  pause  from  toil  and  trim  their  evening  fire; 
Blest  that  abode,  where  want  and  pain  repair, 
And  every  stranger  finds  a  ready  chair. 

Goldsmith. 


There  were  two  classes  of  men  who  had  no  particular 
cause  of  gratitude  to  Mr.  Forsyth.  Lawyers,  notwithstand- 
ing his  respect  for  the  profession,  he  contrived  to  exclude 
from  the  place,  for  no  case  of  dispute  or  difference  ever 
passed  himself,  nor  was  there  ever  an  appeal  from  his 
decisions ;  and  inn-keepers  found  themselves  both  robbed 
of  their  guests  by  his  hospitality,  and  in  danger  of  losing 
their  licenses  for  the  slightest  irregularity  that  affected  the 
morals  of  their  neighbors.  For  at  least  the  last  twenty 
years  of  his  life,  his  house,  from  the  number  of  guests  which 
his  hospitality  had  drawn  to  it,  often  resembled  a  crowded 
inn.  Did  he  meet  with  a  young  man  of  promising  talent, 
however  poor,  who  belonged  in  any  degree  to  the  aristoc- 
racy of  nature,  and  bade  fair  to  rise  above  his  present  level, 
he  was  sure  of  being  invited  to  his  table.  Did  he  come  in 
contact  with  some  unfortunate  aspirant  who  had  seen  bet- 
ter days,  but  who  in  his  fall  had  preserved  his  character,  he 
was  certain  of  being  invited  too.  Was  there  a  wind-bound 
vessel  in  the  port,  Mr.  Forsyth  was  sure  to  bring  the  pas- 
sengers home  with  him.  Had  travellers  come  to  visit  the 
place,  Mr.  Forsyth  could  best  tell  them  all  what  deserved 


THE    SCOTCH  MERCHANT.  343 

their  notice ;  and  nowhere  could  he  tell  it  half  so  well  as  at 
his  own  table.  Never  was  there  a  man  who,  through  the 
mere  indulgence  of  the  kindlier  feelings  of  our  nature,  con- 
trived to  make  himself  more  friends.  The  chance  visitor 
spent  perhaps  a  single  day  under  his  roof,  and  never  after 
ceased  to  esteem  the  good  and  benevolent  owner.  His 
benevolence,  like  that  of  John  of  Calais  in  the  old  romance, 
extended  to  even  the  bodies  of  the  dead;  an  interesting 
instance  of  which  I  am  enabled  to  present  to  the  reader. 

Some  time  in  the  summer  of  1773  or  1774,  a  pleasure- 
yacht,  the  property  of  that  Lord  Byron  who  immediately 
preceded  the  poet,  cast  anchor  in  the  bay  of  Cromarty, 
having,  according  to  report,  a  dying  lady  on  board.  A 
salmon-fisher  of  the  place,  named  Hossack,  a  man  of  singu- 
lar daring  and  immense  personal  strength,  rowed  his  little 
skiff  alongside  in  the  course  of  the  day,  bringing  with  him 
two  fine  salmon  for  sale.  The  crew,  however,  seemed  wild 
and  reckless  as  that  of  a  privateer  or  pirate ;  and  he  had  no 
sooner  touched  the  side,  than  a  fellow  who  stood  in  the 
gangway  dealt  his  light  skiff  so  heavy  a  blow  with  a  boat- 
hook  that  he  split  one  of  the  planks.  Hossack  seized  hold 
of  the  pole,  wrenched  it  out  of  the  fellow's  grasp,  and  was 
in  the  act  of  raising  it  to  strike  him  down,  when  the  master 
of  the  yacht,  a  native  of  Orkney,  came  running  to  the  gun- 
wale, and,  apologizing  for  the  offered  violence,  invited  the 
fisherman  aboard.  He  accordingly  climbed  the  vessel's 
Bide,  and  disposed  of  his  fish. 

Lord  Byron,  a  good-looking  man,  but  rather  shabbily 
dressed,  was  pacing  the  quarter-deck.  Two  proprietors  of 
the  country,  who  had  known  him  in  early  life,  and  had  come 
aboard  to  pay  him  their  respects,  were  sealed  on  chairs  near 
the  stern.  But  the  party  seemed  an  unsocial  one.  His  lord- 
ship continued  to  pace  the  deck,  regarding  his  visitors  from 


344  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

time  to  time  with  an  expression  singularly  repulsive,  while 
the  latter  had  the  blank  look  of  men  who,  expecting  a  kind 
reception,  are  chilled  by  one  freezingly  cold.     The  fisher- 
man was  told  by  the  master,  by  way  of  explanation,  that 
his  lordship,  who   had   been  when  at  the  soundest  a  re- 
served man,  of  very  eccentric  habits,  was  now  unsettled  in 
mind,  and  had  been  so  from  the  time  he  had  killed  a  gen- 
tleman in  a  duel ;  and  that  his  madness  seemed  to  be  of  a 
kind  which,  instead  of  changing,  deepens  the  shades  of  the 
natural  character.     He  was  informed  further,  that  the  sick 
lady,  a  Miss  Mudie,  had  expired  that  morning ;  that  she 
was   no   connection    whatever   of    his    lordship,    but   was 
merely  an  acquaintance  of  the  master's,  and  a  native  of 
Orkney,  who,  having  gone  to  Inverness  for  the  benefit  of 
her  health,  and  becoming  worse,  had  taken  the  opportunity, 
in  the  absence  of  any  more  eligible  conveyance,  of  return- 
ing by  Lord  Byron's  yacht.    The  master,  who  seemed  to  be 
a  plain,  warm-hearted  sailor,  expressed  much  solicitude  re- 
garding the  body.     The  unfortunate  lady  had  been  most 
respectable  herself  and  most  respectably  connected,  and 
was  anxious  that  the  funeral  should  be  of  a  kind  befitting 
her  character  and  station ;  but  then,  he  had  scarce  any- 
thing in  his  own  power,  and  his  lordship  would  listen  to 
nothing  on  the  subject.     "Ah,"  replied  Hossack,  "but  I 
know  a  gentleman  who  would  listen  to  you,  and  do  some- 
thing more.     I  shall  go  ashore  this  moment,  and  tell  Mr. 
Forsyth." 

The  fisherman  did  so,  and  found  he  had  calculated  aright. 
Mr.  Forsyth  sent  townswomen  aboard  to  dress  the  corpse, 
who  used  to  astonish  the  children  of  the  place  for  years 
after  by  their  descriptions  of  the  cabin  in  which  it  lay. 
The  days  of  steamboats  had  not  yet  come  on,  to  render 
such  things  familiar;  and  the  idea  of  a  room  panelled  with 


THE    SCOTCH    MERCHANT.  345 

mirrors,  and  embossed  with  flowers  of  gold,  was  well  suited 
to  fill  the  young  imagination.  The  body  was  taken  ashore ; 
and,  contrary  to  one  of  the  best  established  canons  of  super- 
stition, was  brought  to  the  house  of  Mr.  Forsyth,  from 
which,  on  the  following  day,  when  he  had  invited  inhab- 
tants  of  the  place  to  attend  the  funeral,  it  was  carried  to 
his  own  burying-ground,  and  there  interred.  And  such 
was  the  beginning  of  a  friendship  between  the  benevolent 
merchant  and  the  relatives  of  the  deceased  which  termina- 
ted only  with  the  life  of  the  former.  Two  of  his  visitors, 
during  the  summer  of  1795,  were  a  Major  and  Mrs.  Mudie 
from  Orkney. 
'  I  may  mention,  in  the  passing,  a  somewhat  curious 
circumstance  connected  with  Lord  Byron's  yacht.  She 
actually  sat  deep  in  the  water  at  the  time  with  a  cargo  of 
contraband  goods,  most  of  which  were  afterwards  unloaded 
near  Sinclair's  Bay,  in  Caithness.  Hossack,  ere  he  parted 
from  the  master,  closed  a  bargain  with  him  for  a  consider- 
able quantity  of  Hollands,  and,  on  being  brought  astern  to 
the  vessel's  peak  on  the  evening  she  sailed  from  Cromarty, 
he  found  the  place  filled  with  kegs,  bound  together  by 
pairs,  and  heavy  weights  attached  to  facilitate  their  sink- 
ing, in  the  event  of  their  being  thrown  overboard.  It  is  a 
curious,  but,  I  believe,  well-authenticated  fact,  that  one  of 
the  most  successful  smuggling  vessels  of  the  period,  on  at 
least  the  eastern  coast  of  Scotland,  was  a  revenue-cutter 
provided  by  government  for  the  suppression  of  the  trade. 
Besides  the  chance  visitors  entertained  at  the  hospitable 
board  of  the  merchant,  there  were  parties  of  his  friends 
and  relatives  who  spent,  almost  every  summer,  a  few 
weeks  in  his  family.  The  two  daughters  of  his  brother, 
who  had  removed  to  England  so  long  before,  with  the  son 
and   daughter   of  the   other  brother,  who    had   settled    in 


346  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

Dingwall ;  the  brother  of  his  first  wife,  a  Major  Russell, 
with  the  brother  and  sisters  of  his  second  ;  his  relatives 
from  Elgin  ;  a  nephew  who  had  married  into  a  family  of 
rank  in  England,  and  some  of  his  English  partners  in  the 
hempen  manufactory,  were  among  the  number  of  his  an- 
nual   visitors.     His  parties  were  often  such  as  the  most 
fastidious  would  have  deemed  it  an  honor  to  have  been 
permitted  to  join.     He  has  repeatedly  entertained  at  his 
table   his   old  townsman   Duncan  Davidson,  member   of 
Parliament  at  the  time  for  the  shire  of  Cromarty,  the  late 
Lord  Seaforth,  Sir  James  Mackintosh,  and  his  old  protege 
Charles  Grant,  with  the  sons  of  the  latter,  Charles   and 
Robert.     The  merchant,  when  Mr.  Grant  had  quitted  Cro- 
marty for  London,  was  a  powerful  and  active  man,  in  the 
undiminished  vigor  of  middle  life.    When  he  returned,  after 
his  long  residence  in  India,  he  found  him  far  advanced  in 
years,  indeed  considerably  turned  of  seventy,  and,  in  at 
least  his  bodily  powers,  the  mere  wreck  of  his  former  self. 
And   so  affected   was  the  warm-hearted  director  by  the 
contrast,  that,  on  grasping  his  hand,  he  burst  into  tears. 
Mr.  Forsyth  himself,  however,  saw  nothing  to  regret  in 
the  change.     He  was  still   enjoying  much  in  his  friends 
and  his  family  ;  for  his  affections  remained  warm  as  ever, 
and  he  had  still  enough  of  activity  left  to  do  much  good. 
His  judgment  as  a  magistrate  was  still  sound.     He  had 
more  time,  too,  than  before  to  devote  to  the  concerns  of 
his  neighbors ;  for,  with  the  coming  on  of  old  age,  he  had 
been  gradually  abridging  his  business,  retaining  just  enough 
to  keep  up  his  accustomed  round  of  occivpation.     Had  a 
townsman  died  in  any  of  the  colonies,  or  in  the  army  or 
navy,  after  saving  some  little  money,  it  was  the  part  of  the 
merchant  to  recover  it  for  the  relatives  of  the  deceased. 
Was  the  son  or  nephew  of  some  of  his  humble  neighbors 


THE    SCOTCH   MERCHANT.  347 

trepanned  by  a  recruiting  party,  —  and  there  were  strange 
arts  used  for  the  purpose  fifty  years  ago,  —  the  case  was 
a  difficult  one  indeed  if  Mr.  Forsyth  did  not  succeed  in 
restoring  him  to  his  friends.  He  acted  as  a  sort  of  general 
agent  for  the  district,  and  in  every  instance  acted  without 
fee  or  reward.  The  respect  in  which  he  was  held  by  the 
people  was  shown  by  the  simple  title  by  which  he  was  on 
every  occasion  designated.  They  all  spoke  of  him  as  "the 
Maister."  "  Is  the  Maister  at  home  ?  "  or,  "  Can  I  see  the 
Maister?"  were  the  queries  put  to  his  servants  by  the 
townspeople  perhaps  ten  times  a  day.  Masters  were  be- 
coming somewhat  common  in  the  country  at  the  time,  and 
esquires  not  a  great  deal  less  so  ;  but  the  "  Maister "  was 
the  designation  of  but  one  gentleman  only,  and  the  people 
who  used  the  term  never  forgot  what  it  meant. 

In  all  his  many  acts  of  kindness  the  merchant  was  well 
seconded  by  his  wife,  whose  singularly  comjiassionate  dis- 
position accorded  well  with  his  own.  She  had  among  the 
more  deserving  poor  a  certain  number  to  whom  she  dealt 
a  regular  weekly  allowance,  and  who  were  known  to  the 
townspeople  as  "Mrs.  Forsyth's  pensioners."  Besides, 
rarely  did  she  suffer  a  clay  to  pass  without  the  performance 
of  some  act  of  charity  in  behalf  of  the  others  who  were 
without  the  pale  ;  and  when  sickness  or  distress  visited  a 
poor  family,  she  was  sure  to  visit  it  too.  Physicians  were 
by  no  means  so  common  in  the  country  at  the  time  as 
they  have  since  become  ;  and,  that  she  might  be  the  more 
useful,  Mrs.  Forsyth,  shortly  after  her  marriage,  had  de- 
voted herself,  like  the  ladies  of  an  earlier  period,  to  the 
study  of  medicine.  Her  excellent  sense  more  than  com- 
pensated for  the  irregularity  of  her  training ;  and  there 
were  few  professors  of  the  art  of  healing  in  the  district 
whose  prescriptions  were  more  implicitly  or  more  success- 


348  TALES    AND   SKETCHES. 

fully  followed,  or  whose  medicine-chest  was  oftener  emp- 
tied and  replenished.  Mr.  Forsyth  was  by  no  means  a 
very  wealthy  man,  —  his  hand  had  been  ever  too  open  for 
that,  —  and,  besides,  as  money  had  been  rapidly  sinking  in 
value  during  the  whole  course  of  his  career  as  a  trader,  the 
gains  of  his  earlier  years  had  to  be  measured  by  a  grow- 
ing and  therefore  depreciating  standard.  It  is  a  comfort- 
able fact,  however,  that  no  man  or  family  was  ever  ruined 
by  doing  good  under  the  influence  of  right  motives.  Mr. 
Forsyth's  little  fortune  proved  quite  sufficient  for  all  his 
charities  and  all  his  hospitality.  It  wore  well,  like  the 
honest  admiral's ;  and  the  great  bulk  of  it,  though  he  has 
been  nearly  forty  years  dead,  is  still  in  the  hands  of  his 
descendants. 


CHAPTER    XI. 


Good  and  evil,  we  know,  in  the  field  of  this  world  grow  up 
together  almost  inseparably.  —  Milton. 


There  are  few  things  more  interesting,  in  either  biogra- 
phy or  history,  than  those  chance  tide-marks,  if  I  may  so 
express  myself,  which  show  us  the  ebbs  and  flows  of  opin- 
ion, and  how  very  sudden  its  growth  when  it  sets  in  on 
the  popular  side.  Mr.  Forsyth  was  extensively  engaged 
in  business  when  the  old  hereditary  jurisdictions  were 
abolished  ;  not  in  compliance  with  any  wish  expressed  by 
the  people,  but  by  an  unsolicited  act  on  the  part  of  the 
government.  Years  passed,  and  he  possessed  entire  all 
his  earlier  energies,  when  he  witnessed  from  one  of  the 


THE   SCOTCH   MERCHANT.  849 

windows  of  his  house  in  Cromarty  the  procession  of  a 
Liberty  and  Equality  Club.  The  processionists  were  after- 
wards put  down  by  the  gentlemen  of  the  county,  and 
their  leader,  a  young  man  of  more  wit  than  judgment,  sent 
to  the  jail  of  Tain  ;  but  the  merchant  took  no  part  either 
for  or  against  them.  He  merely  remarked  to  one  of  his 
friends,  that  there  is  as  certainly  a  despotism  of  the  people 
as  of  their  rulers,  and  that  it  is  from  the  better  and  wiser, 
not  from  the  lower  and  more  unsettled  order  of  .minds, 
that  society  need  look  for  whatever  is  suited  to  benefit  or 
adorn  it.  He  had  heard  of  the  Dundees  and  Dalziels  of  a 
former  age,  but  he  had  heard  also  of  its  Jack  Cades  and 
.Al.issaniellos  ;  and  after  outliving  the  atrocities  of  Robes- 
pierre and  Danton,  he  found  no  reason  to  regard  the 
tyranny  of  the  many  with  any  higher  respect  than  that 
which  he  had  all  along  entertained  for  the  tyranny  of  the 
few. 

The  conversation  of  Mr.  Forsyth  was  rather  solid  than 
sparkling.  He  was  rather  a  wise  than  a  witty  man.  Such, 
however,  was  the  character  of  his  remarks,  that  it  was  the 
shrewdest  and  best  informed  who  listened  to  them  with 
must  attention  and  respect.  His  powers  of  observation 
and  reflection  were  of  no  ordinary  kind.  His  life,  like  old 
Nestor's,  was  extended  through  two  whole  generations 
and  the  greater  part  of  the  third,  and  this,  too,  in  a  cen- 
tury which  witnessed  more  changes  in  the  economy  and 
character  of  the  people  of  Scotland  than  any  three  centu- 
ries which  had  gone  before.  It  may  not  be  uninteresting 
to  the  reader  rapidly  to  enumerate  a  lew  of  the  more  im- 
portant of  these,  with  their  mixed  good  and  evil.  A  brief 
summary  may  serve  to  show  us  that,  while  we  should 
never  despair  of  the  improvement  of  society  on  the  one 
hand,  seeing  how  vast  the  difierence  which  obtains  be- 
30 


350  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

tween  the  opposite  states  of  barbarism  and  civilization, 
there  is  little  wisdom  in  indulging,  on  the  other,  in  dreams 
of  a  theoretical  perfection,  at  which  it  is  too  probable  our 
nature  cannot  arrive.  Few  great  changes  take  place  in 
the  economy  of  a  country  without  removing  some  of  the 
older  evils  which  oppressed  it;  few  also  without  intro- 
ducing into  it  evils  that  are  new. 

It  was  in  the  latter  days  of  Mr.  Forsyth  that  the  modern 
system  of  agriculture  had  begun  to  effect  those  changes  in 
the  appearance  of  the  country  and  the  character  of  the 
people  by  which  the  one  has  been  so  mightily  improved 
and  the  other  so  considerably  lowered.  The  clumsy, 
inefficient  system  which  it  supplanted  was  fraught  with 
physical  evil.  There  was  an  immense  waste  of  labor.  A 
large  amount  of  the  scanty  produce  of  the  country  was 
consumed  by  a  disproportionably  numerous  agricultural 
population  ;  and,  from  the  inartificial  methods  pursued, 
the  harvest,  in  every  more  backward  season,  was  thrown 
far  into  the  winter ;  and  years  of  scarcity,  amounting  al- 
most to  famine,  inflicted  from  time  to  time  their  miseries 
on  the  poorer  classes  of  the  people.  It  was  as  impossible, 
too,  in  the  nature  of  things,  that  the  system  should  have 
remained  unaltered  after  science  had  introduced  her  in- 
numerable improvements  into  every  other  department  of 
industry,  as  that  night  should  continue  in  all  its  gloom  in 
one  of  the  central  provinces  of  a  country  after  the  day  had 
arisen  in  all  the  provinces  which  surrounded  it.  Nor 
could  the  landed  interests  have  maintained  their  natural 
and  proper  place  had  the  case  been  otherwise.  There 
were  but  two  alternatives,  advance  in  the  general  rush  of 
improvement,  or  a  standing  still  to  be  trampled  under 
foot.  With  the  more  enlightened  mode  of  agriculture  the 
large-farm   system    is   naturally,  perhaps  inevitably,  con- 


THE   SCOTCH  MERCHANT.  851 

nected ;  at  least,  in  no  branch  of  industry  do  we  find  the 
efficient  adoption  of  scientific  improvement  dissevered  from 
the  extensive  employment  of  capital.  And  it  is  this  sys- 
tem which,  within  the  last  forty  years,  has  so  materially 
deteriorated  the  character  of  the  people.  It  has  broken 
down  the  population  of  the  agricultural  districts  into  two 
extreme  classes.  It  has  annihilated  the  moral  and  reli- 
gious race  of  small  farmers,  who  in  the  last  age  were  so 
peculiarly  the  glory  of  Scotland,  and  of  whom  the  Davie 
Deans  of  the  novelist,  and  the  Cotter  of  Burns,  may  be 
regarded  as  the  fitting  representatives  ;  and  has  given  us 
mere  gentlemen-farmers  and  farm-servants  in  their  stead. 
The  change  was  in  every  respect  unavoidable ;  and  we 
can  only  regret  that  its  physical  good  should  be  so  inevi- 
tably accompanied  by  what  must  be  regarded  as  its  moral 
and  political  evil. 

It  was  during  the  long  career  of  Mr.  Forsyth,  and  in  no 
small  degree  under  his  influence  and  example,  that  the 
various  branches  of  trade  still  pursued  in  the  north  of 
Scotland  were  first  originated.  He  witnessed  the  awaken- 
ing of  the  people  from  the  indolent  stupor  in  which  ex- 
treme poverty  and  an  acquiescent  subjection  to  the  higher 
classes  were  deemed  unavoidable  consequences  of  their 
condition,  to  a  state  of  comparative  comfort  and  indepen- 
dence. He  saw  what  had  been  deemed  the  luxuries  of  his 
younger  days,  placed,  by  the  introduction  of  habits  of  in- 
dustry, and  a  judicious  division  of  labor,  within  the  reach 
of  almost  the  poorest.  He  saw,  too,  the  first  establishment 
of  branch-banks  in  the  north  of  Scotland,  and  the  new  life 
infused,  through  their  influence,  into  every  department  of 
trade.  They  conferred  a  new  ability  of  exertion  on  the 
people,  by  rendering  their  available  capital  equal  to  the 
resources  of  their  trade,  and  gave  to  character  a  money- 


352  TALES  AND   SKETCHES. 

value  which  even  the  most  profligate  were  compelled  to 
recognize  and  respect.  Each  of  these  items  of  improve- 
ment, however,  had  its  own  peculiar  drawback.  Under 
the  influence  of  the  commercial  spirit,  neighbors  have  be- 
come less  kind,  and  the  people  in  general  less  hospitable. 
The  comparative  independence  of  the  poorer  classes  has 
separated  them  more  widely  from  the  upper  than  they  had 
ever  been  separated  before  ;  and  mutual  jealousies  and 
heartburnings  mark,  in  consequence,  the  more  ameliorated 
condition.  The  number  of  traders  and  shopkeepers  has 
become  disproportion  ably  large  ;  and  while  a  few  succeed 
and  make  money,  and  a  few  more  barely  maintain  their 
ground  at  an  immense  expense  of  care  and  exertion,  there 
is  a  considerable  portion  of  the  class  who  have  to  struggle 
on  for  years,  perhaps  involved  in  a  labyrinth  of  shifts  and 
expedients  that  prove  alike  unfavorable  to  their  own 
character  and  to  the  security  of  trade  in  genei*al,  and  then 
end  in  insolvency  at  last.  The  large  command  of  money, 
too,  furnished  at  times  by  imprudent  bank  accommodation, 
has  in  some  instances  awakened  a  spirit  of  speculation 
among  the  people,  which  seems  but  too  much  akin  to  that 
of  the  gambler,  and  which  has  materially  lowered  the  tone 
of  public  morals  in  at  least  the  creditor  and  debtor  rela- 
tion. Bankruptcy,  in  consequence,  is  regarded  with  very 
different  feelings  in  the  present  day  from  what  it  was  sixty 
years  ago.  It  has  lost  much  of  the  old  infamy  which  used 
to  pass  downwards  from  a  man  to  his  children,  and  is  now 
too  often  looked  upon  as  merely  the  natural  close  of  an 
unlucky  speculation,  or,  worse  still,  as  a  sort  of  speculation 
in  itself. 

There  is  one  branch  of  trade,  in  particular,  which  has 
been  suffered  to  increase  by  far  too  much  for  the  weal  of 
the  country.     More  than  two  thousand  pounds  are  squan- 


THE   SCOTCH  MERCHANT.  353 

dered  yearly  in  the  town  of  Gromarty  in  spirituous  liquors 
alone,  —  a  larger  sum  than  that  expended  in  tea,  sugar, 
coffee,  soap,  and  candles,  put  together.  The  evil  is  one  of 
enormous  magnitude,  and  unmixed  in  its  character ;  nor 
is  there  any  part  of  the  country,  and,  indeed,  few  families, 
in  which  its  influence  is  not  felt.  And  yet  in  some  of  the 
many  causes  which  have  led  to  it  we  may  trace  the  work- 
ings of  misdirected  good,  natural  and  political.  A  weak 
compassion  on  the  part  of  those  whose  duty  it  is  to  grant 
or  withhold  the  license  without  which  intoxicating  liquors 
cannot  be  sold,  has  more  than  quadrupled  the  necessary 
number  of  public  houses.  Has  an  honest  man  in  the  lower 
ranks  proved  unfortunate  in  business ;  has  a  laborer  or 
farm-servant  of  good  character  met  with  some  accident 
which  incapacitates  him  from  pursuing  his  ordinary  labors ; 
has  a  respectable,  decent  woman  lost  her  husband,  —  all 
apply  for  the  license  as  their  last  resource,  and  all  are  suc- 
cessful in  their  application.  Each  of  their  houses  attracts 
its  round  of  customers,  who  pass  through  the  downward 
stages  of  a  degradation  to  which  the  keepers  themselves 
are  equally  exposed  ;  and  after  they  have  in  this  way  irre- 
mediably injured  the  character  of  their  neighbors,  their 
own,  in  at  least  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  at  last  gives  way; 
and  the  fatal  house  is  shut  up,  to  make  way  for  another  of 
the  same  class,  which,  after  performing  its  work  of  mis- 
chief on  a  new  circle,  is  to  be  shut  up  in  turn.  Another 
great  cause  of  the  intemperance  of  the  age  is  connected 
with  the  clubs  and  societies  of  modern  times.  Many  of 
these  institutions  are  admirably  suited  to  preserve  a  spirit 
of  independence  and  self-reliance  among  the  people  ex- 
actly the  reverse  of  that  sordid  spirit  of  pauperism  which 
has  so  overlaid  the  energies  of  the  sister  kingdom  ;  and 
there  are  few  of  them  which   do  not  lead  to   a  general 

30* 


354  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

knowledge  of  at  least  the  simpler  practices  of  business, 
and  to  that  spread  of  intelligence  which  naturally  arises 
from  an  intercourse  of  mind  in  which  each  has  somewhat 
to  impart  and  somewhat  to  acquire.  But  they  lead  also, 
in  too  many  instances,  to  the  formation  of  intemperate 
habits  among  the  leading  members.  There  is  the  procession 
and  the  ball,  with  their  necessary  accompaniments;  the 
meeting  begun  with  business  ends  too  often  in  convivial- 
ity; and  there  are  few  acquainted  with  such  institutions 
who  cannot  assign  to  each  its  own  train  of  victims. 

Another  grand  cause  of  this  gigantic  evil  of  intemper- 
ance, —  a  cause  which  fortunately  exists  no  longer,  save 
in  its  effects,  —  was  of  a  political  nature.  On  the  break- 
ing out  of  the  revolutionary  war,  almost  every  man  in  the 
kingdom  fit  to  bear  arms  became  a  soldier.  Every  district 
had  its  embodied  yeomanry  or  local  militia,  every  town 
its  volunteers.  Boys  who  had  just  shot  up  to  their  full 
height  were  at  once  metamorphosed  into  heroes,  and  re- 
ceived their  monthly  pay ;  and,  under  an  exaggerated  as- 
sumption of  the  military  character,  added  to  an  unwonted 
command  of  pocket-money,  there  were  habits  of  reckless 
intemperance  formed  by  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands 
among  the  people,  which  have  now  held  by  them  for  more 
than  a  quarter  of  a  century  after  the  original  cause  has 
been  removed,  and  which  are  passing  downwards,  through 
the  influence  of  example,  to  add  to  the  amount  of  crime 
and  wretchedness  in  other  generations. 

In  no  respect  does  the  last  age  differ  more  from  the 
present  than  in  the  amount  of  general  intelligence  pos- 
sessed by  the  people.  It  is  not  yet  seventy  years  since 
Burke  estimated  the  reading  public  of  Great  Britain  and 
Ireland  at  about  eighty  thousand.  There  is  a  single 
Scotch  periodical  of  the  present  day  that  finds  as  many 


THE    SCOTCH    MERCHANT.  355 

purchasers,  and  on  the  lowest  estimate  twice  as  many- 
readers,  in  Scotland  alone.  There  is  a  total  change,  too, 
in  the  sources  of  popular  intelligence.  The  press  has  sup- 
planted the  church  ;  the  newspaper  and  magazine  occupy 
the  place  once  occupied  by  the  Bible  and  the  Confession 
of  Faith.  Formerly,  when  there  were  comparatively  few 
books  and  no  periodicals  in  this  part  of  the  country, 
there  was  but  one  way  in  which  a  man  could  learn  to 
think.  His  mind  became  the  subject  of  some  serious 
impression.  He  applied  earnestly  to  his  Bible  and  the 
standards  of  the  church  ;  and  in  the  contemplation  of  the 
most  important  of  all  concerns,  his  newly-awakened  facul- 
ties received  their  first  exercise.  And  hence  the  nature 
of  his  influence  in  the  humble  sphere  in  which  he  moved ; 
an  influence  which  the  constitution  of  his  church,  from 
her  admission  of  lay  members  to  deliberate  in  her  courts 
and  to  direct  her  discipline,  tended  powerfully  to  increase. 
It  was  not  more  intellectual  than  moral,  nor  moral  than 
intellectual.  He  was  respected  not  only  as  one  of  the 
best,  but  also  as  one  of  the  most  intelligent  men  in  his 
parish,  and  impressed  the  tone  of  his  own  character  on 
that  of  his  contemporaries.  Popular  intelligence  in  the 
present  age  is  less  influential,  and  by  far  less  respectable, 
in  single  individuals ;  and,  though  of  a  humanizing  ten- 
dency in  general,  its  moral  effects  are  less  decided.  But 
it  is  all-potent  in  the  mass  of  the  people,  and  secures  to 
them  a  political  power  which  they  never  possessed  before, 
and  which  must  prove  for  the  future  their  effectual  guard 
against  tyranny  in  the  rulers ;  unless,  indeed,  they  should 
first  by  their  own  act  break  down  those  natural  barriers 
which  protect  the  various  classes  of  society,  by  becom- 
ing tyrants  themselves.  There  is  a  medium-point  beyond 
which    liberty  becomes  license,  and  license  hastens   to  a 


356  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

despotism  which  may,  indeed,  be  exercised  for  a  short 
time  by  the  many,  but  whose  inevitable  tendency  it  is  to 
pass  into  the  hands  of  the  few. 

A  few  of  the  causes  which  have  tended  to  shut  up  to  so 
great  an  extent  the  older  sources  of  intelligence  may  be 
briefly  enumerated.  Some  of  them  have  originated  within, 
and  some  without  the  church. 

The  benefits  conferred  on  Scotland  by  the  Presbyterian 
Church,  during  at  least  the  two  centuries  which  immedi- 
ately succeeded  the  Reformation,  were  incalculably  great. 
Somewhat  of  despotism  there  might,  nay,  must  have  been, 
in  the  framework  of  our  ecclesiastical  institutions.  The 
age  was  inevitably  despotic.  The  church  in  which  the 
Reformers  had  spent  the  earlier  portion  of  their  lives  was 
essentially  and  constitutionally  so.  Be  it  remembered,  too, 
that  the  principles  of  true  toleration  have  been  as  much 
the  discovery  of  later  ages  as  those  principles  on  which  we 
construct  our  steam-engines.  But  whatever  the  frame- 
work of  the  constitutions  of  our  church,  the  soul  which 
animated  them  was  essentially  that  spirit  "  wherewith 
Christ  maketh  his  people  free."  Nay,  their  very  intoler- 
ance was  of  a  kind  which  delighted  to  arm  its  vassals  with 
a  power  before  which  all  tyranny,  civil  or  ecclesiastical, 
must  eventually  be  overthrown.  It  compelled  them  to 
quit  the  lower  levels  of  our  nature  for  the  higher.  It  de- 
manded of  them  that  they  should  be  no  longer  immoral  or 
illiterate.  It  enacted  that  the  ignorant  baron  should  send 
his  children  to  school,  that  they,  too,  might  not  grow  up 
in  ignorance  ;  and  provided  that  the  children  of  the  poor 
should  be  educated  at  the  expense  of  the  state.  A  strange 
despotism  truly,  which,  by  adding  to  the  knowledge  and 
the  virtue  of  the  people  among  whom  it  was  established, 
gave  them   at  once  that  taste  and  capacity  for  freedom 


THE    SCOTCH    MERCHANT.  357 

without  which  men  cannot  be  other  than  slaves,    be  the 
form  of  government  under  which  they  live  what  it  may. 

Be  it  remembered  too,  that,  whatever  we  of  the  present 
age  may  think  of  our  church,  our  fathers  thought  much  of 
it.  It  was  for  two  whole  centuries  the  most  popular  of  all 
establishments,  and  stamped  its  own  character  on  that  of 
the  people.  The  law  of  patronage,  as  re-established  by 
Oxford  and  Bolingbroke,  first  lowered  its  efficiency;  not 
altogether  so  suddenly,  but  quite  as  surely,  as  these  states- 
men had  intended.  From  being  a  guide  and  leader  of  the 
people,  it  sunk,  in  no  small  degree,  into  a  follower  and  de- 
pendant on  the  government  and  the  aristocracy.  The  old 
Evangelical  party  dwindled  into  a  minority,  and  in  the  ma- 
jority of  its  Church  of  Scotland  became  essentially  unpopu- 
lar and  uninfluential.  More  than  one  half  our  church  stood 
on  exactly  the  same  ground  which  had  been  occupied  by 
the  curates  of  half  a  century  before  ;  and  the  pike  and 
musket  were  again  employed  in  the  settlement  of  ministers, 
who  professed  to  preach  the  gospel  of  peace.  A  second 
change  for  the  worse  took  place  about  fifty  years  ago,  when 
the  modern  system  of  agriculture  was  first  introduced,  and 
the  rage  for  experimental  farming  seemed  to  pervade  all 
classes,  —  ministers  of  the  church  among  the  rest.  Many 
of  these  took  large  farms,  and  engaged  in  the  engrossing 
details  of  business.  Some  were  successful  and  made  money, 
some  were  unfortunate  and  became  bankrupt.  Years  of 
scarcity  came  on  ;  the  price  of  grain  rose  beyond  all  prece- 
dent ;  and  there  wrere  thousands  among  the  suffering  poor 
who  could  look  no  higher  in  the  chain  of  causes  than  to  the 
great  farmers,  clerical  and  lay,  who  were  thriving  on  their 
miseries.  It  is  a  fact  which  stands  in  need  of  no  comment, 
that  the  person  in  the  north  of  Scotland  who  first  raised 
the  price  of  oatmeal  to  three  pounds  per  boll  was  a  clergy- 


358  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

man  of  the  established  church.  A  third  change  which  has 
militated  against  the  clergy  is  connected  with  that  general 
revolution  in  manners,  dress,  and  modes  of  thinking  which, 
during  the  last  forty  years,  has  transferred  the  great  bulk 
of  our  middle  classes  from  the  highest  place  among  the 
people  to  the  lowest  among  the  aristocracy  ;  the  clergymen 
of  our  church,  with  their  families,  among  the  rest.  And  a 
fourth  change,  not  less  disastrous  than  even  the  worst  of 
the  others,  may  be  traced  to  that  recent  extension  of  the 
political  franchise  which  has  had  the  effect  of  involving  so 
many  otherwise  respectable  ministers  in  the  essentially 
irreligious  turmoil  of  party.  There  is  still,  however,  much 
of  its  original  vigor  in  the  Church  of  Scotland;  a  self-reform- 
ing energy  which  no  radically  corrupt  church  ever  did  or 
can  possess ;  and  her  late  efforts  in  shaking  herself  loose 
from  some  of  the  evils  which  have  long  oppressed  her  give 
earnest  that  her  career  of  usefulness  is  not  hastening  to  its 
close. 

There  is  certainly  much  to  employ  the  honest  and  en- 
lightened among  her  members  in  the  present  age.  At  no 
time  did  that  gulf  which  separates  the  higher  from  the 
lower  classes  present  so  perilous  a  breadth,  at  no  time  did 
it  threaten  the  commonwealth  more  ;  and  if  it  be  not  in 
the  power  of  the  equalizing  influence  of  Christianity  to 
bridge  it  over,  there  is  no  other  power  that  can.  It  seems 
quite  as  certain  that  the  spread  of  political  power  shall  ac- 
company the  spread  of  intelligence,  as  that  the  heat  of  the 
sun  shall  accompany  its  light.  It  is  quite  as  idle  to  affirm 
that  the  case  should  be  otherwise,  and  that  this  power 
should  not  be  extended  to  the  people,  as  to  challenge  the 
law  of  gravitation,  or  any  of  the  other  great  laws  which 
regulate  the  government  of  the  universe.  The  progress 
of  mind  cannot  be  arrested ;  the  power  which  necessarily 


THE    SCOTCH    MERCHANT.  359 

accompanies  it  cannot  be  lessened.  Hence  the  imminent 
danger  of  those  suspicions  and  dislikes  that  the  opposite 
classes  entertain  each  of  the  other,  and  which  are  in  so 
many  instances  the  effect  of  mistake  and  misconception. 
The  classes  are  so  divided  that  they  never  meet  to  com- 
pare notes,  or  to  recognize  in  one  another  the  same  com- 
mon nature.  In  the  space  which  separates  them,  the  eaves- 
dropper and  the  tale-bearer  find  their  proper  province  ;  and 
thus  there  are  heart-burnings  produced,  and  jealousies 
fostered,  which  even  in  the  present  age  destroy  the  better 
charities  of  society,  and  which,  should  the  evil  remain  un- 
corrected, must  inevitably  produce  still  sadder  effects  in 
the  future.  Hence  it  is,  too,  that  the  mere  malignancy  of 
opposition  has  become  so  popular,  and  that  noisy  dema- 
gogues, whose  sole  merit  consists  in  their  hatred  of  the 
higher  classes,  receive  so  often  the  support  of  better  men 
than  themselves.  It  is  truly  wonderful  how  many  defects, 
moral  and  intellectual,  may  be  covered  by  what  Dryden 
happily  terms  the  "all-atoning  name  of  patriot,"  —  how 
creatures  utterly  broken  in  character  and  means,  pitiful 
little  tyrants  in  fields  and  families,  the  very  stuff  out  of 
which  spies  and  informers  are  made,  are  supported  and 
cheered  on  in  their  course  of  political  agitation  by  sober- 
minded  men,  who  would  never  once  dream  of  entrusting 
them  with  their  private  concerns.  We  may  look  for  the 
cause  in  the  perilous  disunion  of  the  upper  and  Lower 
classes,  and  the  widely-diffused  bitterness  of  feeling  which 
that  disunion  occasions. 


360  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Death  is  the  crown  of  life : 
Were  death  denied,  poor  men  would  live  in  vain ; 
Were  death  denied,  to  live  would  not  be  life. 

Young. 

Mr.  Forsyth  was  for  about  forty  years  an  elder  of  the 
church,  and  never  was  the  office  more  conscientiously  or 
more  consistently  held.  It  was  observed,  however,  that, 
though  not  less  orthodox  in  his  belief  than  any  of  his 
brother  elders,  and  certainly  not  less  scrupulously  strict  in 
his  morals,  he  was  much  less  severe  in  his  judgments  on 
offenders,  and  less  ready  in  sanctioning,  except  in  extreme 
cases,  the  employment  of  the  sterner  discipline  of  the  church. 
On  one  occasion,  when  distributing  the  poor's  funds,  he  set 
apart  a  few  shillings  for  a  poor  creature,  of  rather  equivocal 
character,  who  had  lately  been  visited  by  the  displeasure 
of  the  session,  and  who,  though  in  wretched  poverty,  felt 
too  much  ashamed  at  the  time  to  come  forward  to  claim 
her  customary  allowance. 

"  Hold,  Mr.  Forsyth,"  said  one  of  the  elders,  a  severe  and 
rigid  Presbyterian  of  the  old  school,  —  "  hold  ;  the  woman 
is  a  bad  woman,  and  doesn't  deserve  that." 

"  Ah,"  replied  the  merchant,  in  the  very  vein  of  Hamlet, 
"  if  we  get  barely  according  to  our  deservings,  Donald,  who 
of  us  all  shall  escape  whipping?  We  shall  just  give  the 
poor  thing  these  few  shillings  which  she  does  not  deserve, 
tn  consideration  of  the  much  we  ourselves  enjoy  which  we 
deserve,  I  am  afraid,  nearly  as  little." 


THE    SCOTCH    MERCHANT.  361 

"  You  are  a  wiser  man  than  I  am,  Mr.  Forsyth,"  said  the 
elder,  and  sat  down  rebuked. 

No  course  in  life  so  invariably  smooth  and  prosperous  in 
its  tenor  that  the  consolations  of  religion  —  even  regard- 
in^  religion  as  a  matter  of  this  world  alone  —  can  be  well 
dispensed  with.  There  are  griefs  which  come  to  all  ;  and 
the  more  affectionate  the  heart,  and  the  greater  its  capacity 
of  happiness,  the  more  keenly  are  these  felt.  Of  nine  chil- 
dren which  his  wife  bore  to  him,  William  Forsyth  survived 
six.  Four  died  in  childhood  ;  not  so  early,  however,  but 
that  they  had  first  engaged  the  affections  and  awakened 
the  hopes  of  their  parents.  A  fifth  reached  the  more  ma- 
ture age  at  which  the  intellect  begins  to  open,  and  the  dis- 
positions to  show  what  they  are  eventually  to  become,  and 
then  fell  a  victim  to  that  insidious  disease  which  so  often 
holds  out  to  the  last  its  promises  of  recovery,  and  with 
which  hope  struggles  so  long  and  so  painfully,  to  be  over- 
borne by  disappointment  in  the  end.  And  a  sixth,  a  young 
man  of  vigorous  talent  and  kindly  feelings,  after  obtaining 
a  writership  in  India  through  the  influence  of  his  father's 
old  protege,  Mr.  Charles  Grant,  fell  a  victim  to  the  climate 
in  his  twentieth  year.  Mr.  Forsyth  bore  his  various  sor- 
rows, not  as  a  philosopher,  but  as  a  Christian ;  not  as  if  pos- 
sessed of  strength  enough  in  his  own  mind  to  bear  up  under 
each  succeeding  bereavement,  but  as  one  deriving  comfort 
from  conviction  that  the  adorable  Being  who  cared  for  both 
him  and  his  children  does  not  afnict  his  creatures  willingly, 
and  that  the  scene  of  existence  which  he  saw  closing  upon 
them,  and  which  was  one  day  to  close  upon  himself,  is  to 
be  succeeded  by  another  and  a  better  scene,  where  God 
himself  wipeth  away  all  tears  from  all  eyes.  His  only  sur- 
viving son,  John,  the  last  of  four,  left  him,  as  he  himself  had 
left  his  father  more  than  fifty  years  before,  for  a  house  of 

31 


362  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

business  in  London,  which  he  afterwards  quitted  for  India, 
on  receiving  an  appointment  there  through  the  kindness 
of  Mr.  Grant.  Mr.  Forsyth  accompanied  him  to  the  beach, 
where  a  boat  manned  by  six  fishermen  was  in  waiting  to 
carry  him  to  a  vessel  in  the  offing.  He  knew  too  surely 
that  he  was  parting  from  him  for  ever ;  but  he  bore  up 
under  the  conviction  until  the  final  adieu,  and  then,  wholly 
overpowered  by  his  feelings,  he  burst  into  tears.  Nor  was 
the  young  man  less  affected.  It  was  interesting  to  see  the 
effects  of  this  scene  on  the  rude  boatmen.  They  had  never 
seen  "the  Maister"  so  affected  before;  and  as  they  bent 
them  to  their  oars,  there  was  not  a  dry  eye  among  them. 

Age  brought  with  it  its  various  infirmities,  and  there 
were  whole  weeks  in  which  Mr.  Forsyth  could  no  longer 
see  his  friends  as  usual ;  nor  even  when  in  better  health  — 
in  at  least  what  must  often  pass  for  health  at  seventy-seven 
—  could  he  quit  his  bedroom  before  the  middle  of  the  day. 
He  now  experienced  how  surely  an  affectionate  disposition 
draws  to  itseHj  by  a  natural  sympathy,  the  affection  of  oth- 
ers. His  wife,  who  was  still  but  in  middle  life,  and  his  two 
surviving  daughters,  Catherine  and  Isabella,  were  unwea- 
ried in  their  attentions  to  him,  anticipating  every  wish,  and 
securing  to  him  every  little  comfort  Avhich  his  situation 
required,  with  that  anxious  ingenuity  of  affection  so  chai-- 
acteristic  of  the  better  order  of  female  minds.  His  sight 
had  so  much  failed  him  that  he  could  no  longer  apply  to 
his  favorite  authors  as  before  ;  but  one  of  his  daughters 
used  to  sit  beside  him  and  read  a  few  pages  at  a  time,  for 
his  mind  was  less  capable  than  formerly  of  pursuing,  unfi i- 
tigued,  long  trains  of  thought.  At  no  previous  period, 
however,  did  he  relish  his  books  more.  The  state  of  gen- 
eral debility  which  marked  his  decline  resembled  that  which 
characterizes  the  first  stage  of  convalescence  in  lingering 


THE    SCOTCH    MERCHANT.  363 

disorders.  If  his  vigor  of  thought  was  lessened,  his  feel- 
ings of  enjoyment  seemed  in  proportion  more  exquisitely 
keen.  His  temper,  always  smooth  and  placid,  had  soft- 
ened with  his  advance  in  years,  and  every  new  act  of  atten- 
tion or  kindness  which  he  experienced  seemed  too  much 
for  his  feelings.  He  was  singularly  grateful;  grateful  to 
his  wife  and  daughters,  and  to  the  friends  who  from  time 
to  time  came  to  sit  beside  his  chair  and  communicated  to 
him  any  little  piece  of  good  news  ;  above  all,  grateful  to 
the  great  Being  who  had  been  caring  for  him  all  life  long, 
and  who  now,  amid  the  infirmities  of  old  age,  was  still 
giving  him  so  much  to  enjoy.  In  the  prime  of  life,  when 
his  judgment  was  soundest  and  most  discriminative,  he  had 
given  the  full  assent  of  his  vigorous  understanding  to  those 
peculiar  doctrines  of  Christianity  on  which  its  morals  are 
founded.  He  had  believed  in  Jesus  Christ  as  the  sole 
mediator  between  God  and  man ;  and  the  truth  which  had 
received  the  sanction  of  his  understanding  then,  served  to 
occupy  the  whole  of  his  affections  now.  Christ  was  all  with 
him,  and  himself  was  nothing.  The  reader  will  perhaps 
pardon  my  embodying  a  few  simple  thoughts  on  this  im- 
portant subject,  which  I  offer  with  all  the  more  diffidence 
that  they  have  not  come  to  me  through  the  medium  of  auy 
other  mind. 

It  will  be  found  that  all  the  false  religions,  of  past  or  of 
present  times,  which  have  abused  the  credulity  or  flattered 
the  judgments  of  men,  may  be  divided  into  two  grand 
classes,  —  the  natural  and  the  artificial.  The  latter  are  ex- 
clusively the  work  of  the  human  reason,  prompted  by  those 
uneradicable  feelings  of  our  nature  which  constitute  man  a 
religious  creature.  The  religions  of  Socrates  and  Plato,  of 
the  old  philosophers  in  general,  with  perhaps  the  exception 
of  the  sceptics,  and   a  few  others,  —  of  Lord  Herbert  of 


364  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

Cherbuiy,  Algernon  Sidney,  and  Dr.  Channing,  of  all  the 
better  Deists,  of  the  Unitarians  too,  and  the  Socinians  of 
modern  times, — belong  to  this  highly  rational  but  unpopu- 
lar and  totally  inefficient  class.  The  God  of  these  religions 
is  a  mere  abstract  idea;  an  incomprehensible  essence  of 
goodness,  power,  and  wisdom.  The  understanding  cannot 
conceive  of  him,  except  as  a  great  First  Cause, —  as  the  in- 
comprehensible source  and  originator  of  all  things ;  and  it 
is  surely  according  to  reason  that  he  should  be  thus  re- 
moved from  that  lower  sphere  of  conception  which  even 
finite  intelligences  can  occupy  to  the  full.  But  in  thas 
rendering  him  intangible  to  the  understanding  he  is  ren- 
dered intangible  to  the  affections  also.  Who  ever  loved  an 
abstract  idea?  or  what  sympathy  can  exist  between  human 
minds  and  an  intelligent  essence  infinitely  diffused  ?  And 
hence  the  cold  and  barren  inefficiency  of  artificial  religions. 
They  want  the  vitality  of  life.  They  want  the  grand  prin- 
ciple of  motive  ;  for  they  can  lay  no  hold  on  those  affections 
to  which  this  prime  mover  in  all  human  affairs  can  alone 
address  itself.  They  may  look  well  in  a  discourse  or  an 
essay,  for,  like  all  human  inventions,  they  may  be  easily 
understood  and  rationally  defended ;  but  they  are  totally 
unsuited  to  the  nature  and  the  wants  of  man. 

The  natural  religions  are  of  an  entirely  different  char- 
acter. They  are  wild  and  extravagant ;  and  the  enlight- 
ened reason,  when  unbiassed  by  the  influences  of  early 
prejudice,  rejects  them  as  monstrous  and  profane.  But, 
unlike  the  others,  they  have  a  strong  hold  on  human  na- 
ture, and  exert  a  powerful  control  over  its  hopes  and  its 
fears.  Men  may  build  up  an  artificial  religion  as  they 
build  up  a  house,  and  the  same  age  may  see  it  begun  and 
completed.  Natural  religions,  on  the  contrary,  are,  like 
the  oak  and  the  chestnut,  the  slow  growth  of  centuries ; 


THE    SCOTCH    MERCHANT.  365 

their  first  beginnings  are  lost  in  the  uncertainty  of  the  fab- 
ulous ages ;  and  every  addition  they  receive  is  fitted  to 
the  credulity  of  the  popular  mind  ere  it  can  assimilate 
itself  to  the  mass.  The  grand  cause  of  their  popularity, 
however,  consists  in  the  decidedly  human  character  of 
their  gods ;  for  it  is  according  to  the  nature  of  man  as  a 
religious  creature  that  he  meets  with  an  answering  nature 
in  Deity.  The  gods  of  the  Greek  and  Roman  were  human 
beings  like  themselves,  and  influenced  by  a  merely  human 
favoritism.  The  devotion  of  their  worshippers  was  but  a 
mere  reverential  species  of  friendship  ;  and  there  are  per- 
haps few  men  of  warm  imaginations  who  have  become 
acquainted  in  early  life  with  the  ^Eneid  of  Virgil,  or  the 
Telemaque  of  Fenelon,  who  are  not  enabled  to  conceive, 
in  part  at  least,  how  such  a  friendship  could  be  enter- 
tained. The  Scandinavian  mythology,  with  the  equally 
barbarous  mythologies  of  the  East,  however  different  in 
other  respects,  agree  in  this  main  principle  of  popularity, 
the  human  character  of  their  gods.  The  Virgin  Mother 
and  the  many  saints  of  the  Romish  Church,  with  its  tangi- 
bilities of  pictures  and  images,  form  an  indispensable  com- 
pensation for  its  lack  of  the  evangelical  principle;  and  it 
is  undoubtedly  to  the  well-defined  and  easily-conceived 
character  of  Mohammed  that  Allah  owes  the  homage  of 
the  unreckoned  millions  of  the  East. 

Now,  it  is  according  to  reason  and  analogy  that  the  true 
religion  should  be  formed,  if  I  may  so  express  myself,  on 
a  popular  principle;  that  it  should  be  adapted,  with  all  the 
fitness  which  constitutes  the  argument  of  design,  to  that 
human  nature  which  must  be  regarded  as  the  production 
of  the  common  author  of  both.  It  is  indispensable  that 
the  religion  which  God  reveals  should  be  suited  to  the  hu- 
man nature  which  God  has  made.    Artificial  religions,  with 

31* 


366  TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

all  their  minute  rationalities,  are  not  suited  to  it  at  all,  and 
therefore  take  no  hold  on  the  popular  mind ;  natural  reli- 
gions, with  all  their  immense  popularity,  are  not  suited  to 
improve  it.  It  is  Christianity  alone  which  unites  the  pop- 
ularity of  the  one  class  with  the  rationality,  and  more  than 
the  purity,  of  the  other  ;  that  gives  to  the  Deity,  as  man, 
his  strong  hold  on  the  human  affections,  and  restores  to 
him,  in  his  abstract  character  as  the  father  of  all,  the 
homage  of  the  understanding. 

The  change  which  must  come  to  all  was  fast  coming  on 
William  Forsyth.  There  was  a  gradual  sinking  of  his 
powers,  bodily  and  intellectual ;  a  thorough  prostration  of 
strength  and  energy  ;  and  yet,  amid  the  general  wreck  of 
the  man,  the  affections  remained  entire  and  unbroken ; 
and  the  idea  that  the  present  scene  is  to  be  succeeded  by 
another  was  continually  present  with  him.  Weeks  passed 
in  which  he  could  no  longer  quit  his  bed.  On  the  day  he 
died,  however,  he  expressed  a  wish  to  be  brought  to  a 
chair  which  stood  fronting  a  window,  and  the  wish  was 
complied  with.  The  window  commands  a  full  view  of 
the  main  street  of  the  place  ;  but  though  his  face  was 
turned  in  that  direction,  his  attendants  could  not  suppose 
that  he  took  note  any  longer  of  the  objects  before  him  ; 
the  eyes  were  open,  but  the  sense  seemed  shut.  The  case, 
however,  was  otherwise.  A  poor  old  woman  passed  by, 
and  the  dying  man  recognized  her  at  once.  "Ah,  yonder," 
he  said,  addressing  one  of  his  daughters  who  stood  by  him, 
"is  poor  old  Widow  Watson,  whom  I  have  not  seen  now 
for  many  weeks.  Take  a  shilling  for  her  out  of  my  purse, 
and  tell  her  it  is  the  last  she  will  ever  get  from  me."  And 
so  it  was  ;  and  such  was  the  closing  act  of  a  long  and 
singularly  useful  life  ;  for  his  death,  unaccompanied  appar- 
ently by  aught  of  suffering,  took  place  in  the  course  of  the 


THE    SCOTCH   MERCHANT.  367 

evening,  only  a  few  hours  after.  He  had  completed  his 
seventy-eighth  year.  All  the  men  of  the  place  attended 
his  funeral',  and  many  from  the  neighboring  country  ; 
and  there  were  few  among  the  assembled  hundreds  who 
crowded  round  his  grave  to  catch  a  last  glimpse  of  the 
coffin,  who  did  not  feel  that  they  had  lost  a  friend.  He 
was  one  of  nature's  noblemen  ;  and  the  sincere  homage 
of  the  better  feelings  is  an  honor  reserved  exclusively  to 
the  order  to  which  he  belonged. 

Mrs.  Forsyth  survived  her  husband  for  eight  years. 
And  after  living  in  the  continued  exercise  of  similar  vir- 
tues, she  died  in  the  full  hope  of  the  same  blessed  immor- 
tality, leaving  all  Avho  knew  her  to  regret  her  loss,  though 
it  was  the  poor  that  mourned  her  most.  Their  three  sur- 
viving children  proved  themselves  the  worthy  descendants 
of  such  parents.  There  is  a  time  coming  when  families  of 
twenty  descents  may  be  regarded  as  less  noble,  and  as 
possessing  in  a  much  less  degree  the  advantages  of  birth; 
for,  partly,  it  would  seem,  through  that  often  marked 
though  inexplicable  effect  of  the  organization  of  matter 
on  the  faculties  of  mind,  which  transmits  the  same  charac- 
ter in  the  same  line  from  generation  to  generation,  and 
partly,  doubtless,  from  the  influence  of  early  example, 
they  all  inherited  in  no  slight  or  equivocal  degree  the  vir- 
tues of  their  father  and  mother.  A  general  raassiveness 
and  force  of  intellect,  with  a  nice  and  unbending  rectitude 
of  principle,  and  great  benevolence  of  disposition,  were 
the  more  marked  characteristics.  Catherine,  the  eldest 
of  the  three,  was  married  in  1801  to  her  cousin  Isaac  For- 
syth, banker,  Elgin,  the  brother  and  biographer  of  the 
well-known  tourist ;  and,  after  enjoying  in  a  singular  de- 
gree the  affection  of  her  husband  and  family,  and  the 
respect  of  a  wide  circle  of  acquaintance,  she  died  in  the 


368  TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

autumn  of  1826,  in  her  fifty-seventh  year.  Isabella  contin- 
ued to  reside  in  her  father's  house  at  Cromarty,  which 
maintained  in  no  small  degree  its  former  character,  and 
there  cannot  well  be  higher  praise.  None  of  Mrs.  Forsyth's 
old  pensioners  were  suffered  to  want  by  her  daughter; 
and  as  they  dropped  off,  one  by  one,  their  places  were  sup- 
plied by  others.  She  was  the  effective  and  active  patron- 
ess, too,  of  every  scheme  of  benevolence  originated  in  the 
place,  whether  for  the  benefit  of  the  poor  or  of  the  young. 
She  was  married  in  1811  to  Captain  Alexander  M'Kenzie, 
R.  M.,  of  the  Scatwell  family,  and  died  in  the  spring  of 
1838,  in  her  sixty-eighth  year,  bequeathing  by  will  three 
hundred  pounds  to  be  laid  out  at  interest  for  the  behalf 
of  three  poor  widows  of  the  place.  John,  the  youngest 
of  the  family,  quitted  his  father's  house  for  India,  as  has 
been  already  related,  in  1792.  He  rose  by  the  usual  steps 
of  promotion  as  resident  at  various  stations,  became  a 
senior  merchant,  and  was  appointed  to  the  important 
charge  of  keeper  of  the  Company's  warehouse  at  Calcutta, 
with  the  near  prospect  of  being  advanced  to  the  Board  of 
Trade.  His  long  residence  in  India,  however,  had  been 
gradually  undermining  a  constitution  originally  vigorous, 
and  he  fell  a  victim  to  the  climate  in  1823,  in  the  forty- 
fifth  year  of  his  age.  He  had  married  an  English  lady 
in  Calcutta,  Miss  Mary  Ann  Farmer,  a  few  years  before, 
and  had  an  only  daughter  by  her,  Mary  Elizabeth  Forsyth, 
who  now  inherits  her  grandfather's  property  in  Cromarty. 
His  character  was  that  of  the  family.  For  the  last  fifteen 
years  of  his  life  he  regularly  remitted  fifty  pounds  annually 
for  the  poor  of  Cromarty,  and  left  them  a  thousand  pounds 
at  his  death.  The  family  burying-ground  fronts  the  parish 
church.  It  contains  a  simple  tablet  of  Portland  stone, 
surmounted  by  a  vase  of  white  marble,  and  bearing  the 


THE    SCOTCH    MERCHANT.  369 

following  epitaph,  whose  rare  merit  it  is  to  be  at  once 
highly  eulogistic  and  strictly  true  :  — 

(GEUltam  Jforsgtlj,   6squi«, 

DIED 

the  30th  January,  1800,  in  the  78th  year  of  his  age; 

A  Man  loved  for  his  benevolence, 

honored  for  his  integrity,  and 

revered  for  his  piety. 

He  was  religious  without  gloom ; 

cheerful  without  levity; 

bountiful  without  ostentation 

Rigid  in  the  discharge  of  his   own  duties,  he  waf 

charitable  and  lenient  in  his  judgment  of  others. 

His  kindness   and  hospitality  were  unbounded; 

and  in  him  the  Destitute  found  a  Friend, 

the  Oppressed  a  Protector. 


On  the  7th  August,  1808,  aged  sixty-six,  died 
(Blrjabttlj, 

His  beloved  Wife, 

in  obedience  to  whose  last  desire 

this  Tablet  is  inscribed  to  his  Memory, 

which  she  ever  cherished  with  tender  affection, 

and  adorned  by  the  practice  of  similar  virtues. 

With  characteristic  humility 

she  wished  that  merely  her  Death  should  be  recorded 

on  this  stone; 

and  to  those  who  knew  her  no  other  memorial  was  wantinp:- 

nor  is  it  necessary,  even  if  it  were  possible, 

to  delineate  to  the  passing  stranger 

the  beauty  of  her  deportment, 

the  strength  of  her   understanding, 

and  the  benignity  of  her  heart; 

but  rather 

to  admonish  him,  from  such  bright  examples, 

that  the  paths  of  godliness  and  virtue  lead 

to  happiness  on  earth, 
and  the  assurance  of  joys  beyond  the  grave. 


Of  their  children,  they  survived  Patrick,  who  died  at  the  ape  of  20  in  the 

East  Indies;  and  James.  Isabella,  Margaret,  William,  and  Elizabeth, 

who,  with  their  parents,  were  buried  in  this  place. 


1 


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matchless  epic,  we  believe  it  will  be  'Yesterday,  To-day,  and  Forever.'"  —  Lor 
don  Globe. 

Butler  (Rev.  William  Archer).  Sermons.  2  vols.,  §2.50. 
Lectures  on  Ancient  Philosophy.     2  vols.,  §2.50. 

"  A  few  weeks  ago  we  spoke  of  the  reprinting,  by  Carter  &  Brothers,  of  the  Ser- 
mons of  Archer  Butler,  a  body  of  preaching  so  strong  and  massive  as  to  be  really 
wonderful.  The  '  Lectures  on  Ancienl  Philosophy'  that  are  now  added,  were  de- 
livered at  the  University  of  Dublin,  about  the  year  1840,  when  the  author  was 
scarcely  thirty  years  old."  —  Watchman. 

The  Book  and  Its  Story.    12mo.    §1.50. 

Fresh  Leaves  from  the  Book  and  Its  Story.  12mo. 
I1.50C 

"  Let  any  one  who  is  inclined  to  think  the  bare  Scriptures  '  dry  '  reading,  peruse 
them  in  connection  with  a  volume  like  this,  and  they  will  be  clothed  to  him  with  a 
new  life.  He  will  learn  how  the  separate  books  of  the  Bible  were,  as  it  wen',  built 
into  one  another,  and  made  to  form  a  glorious  whole:  he  will  read  intelligently 
and  with  deep  interest."  — Keystone. 


BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY 


Bonar  (HoratiilS,  D.D.).     Hymns  of  Faith  and  Hope.     3  vols., 
18mo.     $2.25. 

Bible  Thoughts  and  Themes.    6  vols.    12mo,  viz. :  — 

Genesis $2.00    Acts,  &c $2.00 

Old  Testament  .     .     .  2.00    Lesser  Epistles  .    .     .      2.00 

Gospels 2.00     Revelation 2.00 

"  With  no  attempt  at  exposition,  except  what  is  found  in  comparing  Scripture 
with  Scripture,  and  drawing  illustrations  and  means  of  impressing  rich  gospel 
truth  from  almost  every  source,  the  author  proceeds  with- theme  upon  theme,  giv- 
ing floods  of  edifying  and  comforting  light  from  beginning  to  end.  It  is  a  good 
book  for  the  private  Christian  to  have  on  his  table  for  frequent  use,  and  ministers 
will  often  find  in  it  that  which  will  be  suggestive  aud  useful."  —  Christian  In~ 
structor. 

Way  of  Peace    .     .     $0.50    The  Rent  Veil $1.25 

Way  of  Holiness  .  .  .60  My  Old  Letters  ....  2.00 
Night  of  Weeping  .  .50  Hymns  of  the  Nativity,  gilt,  1.00 
\Iorning  of  Joy      .     .     .60     The  Christ  of  God     .     .     .     1.25 

Follow  the  Lamb  .     .     .40    Truth  and  Error 60 

The  Everlasting  Righteousness    ....    $0.60 

Chalmers  (Thomas,  D.D.).     Sermons.     2  vols,  in  one.    $300. 

Cowper  (Wm.).     The  Task.     Illustrated  by  Birket  Foster.     $3.50. 

Cuyler  (Rev.  T.  L.). 

Pointed  Papers $1.50 

Thought  Hives 1.50 

Empty  Crib 1.00 

"Dr.  Cuyler  holds  steadily  the  position  which  he  reached  years  ago,  as  the  best 
writer  of  pointed,  racy,  religious  articles  in  our  country.''  —  Presbyterian. 

Dick  (John,  D.D.).     Lectures  on  Theology.     8vo.     $3.00. 

"  It  is,  as  a  whole,  superior  to  any  other  system  of  theology  in  our  language."  ' 
Christian  Journal. 

Dickson  (Rev.  Alexander,  D.D.). 

All  About  Jesus $2.00 

Beauty  for  Ashes 2.00 

"His  book  is  a  '  bundle  of  myrrh,'  and  will  be  specially  enjoyed  by  those  who 
are  in  trouble." —  Rev.  Dr.  W.  M.  Taylor. 

"Luscious  as  a  honeycomb  with  sweetness  drawn  from  God's  word  "  —  Rev. 
Dr.  Cuyler. 


ROBERT  CARTER  &»  BROTHERS.  5 

Dykes  (Oswald,  D.D.),  on  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount. 

3  vols.,  $3.00. 

Abraham,  the  Fkiexd  of  God  .......     $1.50 

"We  are  ever  and  anon  surprised  by  some  new  view  or  fresh  thought  that 
never  had  occurred  to  us  in  this  connection.  The  book  (Abraham)  is  a  thoughtful, 
scholarly  production,  in  vigjrous  English."  —  2i.  Christian  Advocate. 

*  Edwards  (Jonathan).     Works.     In  4  vols.,  octavo.    $6.00. 

"  I  consider  Jonathan  Edwards  the  greatest  of  the  sons  of  men."  —  Robert  Hall 

Fraser  (Rev.  Donald).  Synoptical  Lectures  on  the  Books  of  the 
Bible.     3  vols.,  $b\00. 

"  Dr.  Fraser  has  observed,  like  many  others  of  us,  the  mischief  which  results 
from  cutting  the  Bible  into  fragments,  and  using  it  piecemeal.  In  these  volumes 
he  discourses  of  the  Bible  at  large,  indicates  the  scope  of  each  book,  and  furnishes 
a  brief  digest  of  its  contents.  The  design  was  in  itself  most  laudable,  and  it  has 
been  well  carried  out."  —  Spurgeon. 

Green  (Prof.  Win.  Henry,  D.D.).  The  Argument  of  the  Book 
of  Job  Unfolded.     12mo.     $1.75. 

"That  ancient  composition  so  marvellous  in  beauty,  and  so  rich  in  philosophy, 
Is  here  treated  in  a  thoroughly  analytical  manner,  and  new  depths  and  grander 
proportions  of  the  divine  original  portrayed.  It  is  a  book  to  stimulate  research  " 
—  Methodist  Recorder. 

Guthrie  (Thomas,  D.D.).     Life  and  Works.     11  vols.     $15.00. 

"  His  pages  glow  with  the  deep  piety,  the  Scriptural  beauty,  the  rich  imagery, 
and  the  tender  pathos  which  breathed  from  his  lips."  —  .iV.  Y.  Observer. 

Hamilton  (James,  D.D.).  Select  Works.  4  vols.  $5.00.  Con- 
taining The  Royal  Preacher;  Mount  of  Olives  ;  Pearl  of  Parables-, 
Lamp  and  Lantern  ;  Great  Biography  ;  Harp  on  the  Willows  ;  Lake 
of  Galilee  ;  Emblems  from  Eden  ;  Life  in  Earnest. 

"Those  familiar  with  the  works  of  f)r  Hamilton  will  perceive  that  this  set  ot 
volumes  contains  the  choice  gold  from  the  author's  mine.  They  are  put  up  iu  a 
neat  box,  and  sold  at  the  low  price  of ; 55  for  the  set."  —  Interior. 

Hamlin    (Cyrus).     Among  the  Turks.     12mo.     $150. 

Haiina  (Rev.  William,  D.D.).    Life  of  Christ.    3  vols.    12mo, 

$4.50. 

'•  We  can  heartily  commend  the  '  Life  of  our  Lord,'  by  Dr.  Hanna."—  Congre- 
gational Quarterly. 

"  Besides  the  beauty  of  the  style  and  the  careful  scholarship  which  mark  these 
volumes,  we  cannot  too  warmly  commend  them  for  their  deep  piety  and  hearty 
enforcement  of  the  doctrines  of  Christianity."  —  N.  ¥.  Observer. 


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Hill  (George).     Lectures  on  Divinity.     8vo.     §2.50. 

"  The  candor  and  fairness  of  this  author  are  remarkable,  an  unfailing  indica- 
tion of  real  greatness."  —  Christian  Mirror. 

Hodge  (Charles,  D.D.).     Commentaries. 

On  Romans.     12mo $1.75 

On  Ephesians.     12mo 1.75 

On  Corinthians.     2  vols.     12mo 3.50 

Rev.  C.  H.  Spuigeon  says:  "Most  valuable.  With  no  writer  do  we  more  fully 
agree.  The  more  we  use  Hodge,  the  more  we  value  him.  This  applies  to  all  his 
Commentaries." 

Hodge  (Rev.  A.  A.,  D.D.).    Outlines  of  Theology.     Revised  and 

Enlarged  Edition.     8vo.     §3.00. 

"At  its  first  publication  in  1860,  this  work  attracted  much  attention,  and  ever 
since  it  has  had  a  large  sale,  and  been  carefully  studied  both  in  this  country  and  in 
Great  Britain.  It  has  been  translated  into  Welsh  and  modern  Greek,  and  has 
been  used  as  a  text-book  in  several  theological  schools.  Prepared  originally  in 
good  part  from  notes  taken  by  the  author  from  his  distinguished  father's  lectures, 
with  the  assistance  of  standard  theological  writers,  after  fourteen  years  of  service 
as  a  theological  instructor,  he  has,  with  increased  knowledge  ami  experience  as  a 
teacher,  embodied  in  this  new  and  enlarged  edition  not  only  the  treasures  of  the 
volume  as  it  first  appeared,  but  the  rich  results  of  his  additional  studies  and  inves- 
tigations This  new  edition  contains  fifty  per  cent  more  of  matter  than  the  former 
one.  Two  chapters  have  been  dropped,  and  five  new  ones  have  been  added."  — 
Presbyterian  Banner. 

Holt  (Emily  Sarah).     Historical  Tales. 

Isoult  Barky.     12mo §1.50 

Robin  Trkmayne.     12mo 1.50 

The  Well  in  the  Desert.     16mo 1.25 

Ashcliffe  Hall.     16mo 1.25 

Verena  ;  A  Tale.     12mo 1.50 

The  White  Rose  of  Langley.     12mo      ....    1.50 

Imogen.     12mo 1-50 

Clare  Avery.     12mo 1-50 

Lettice  Eden.     12mo 1-50 

For  the  Master's  Sake.     16mo 100 

Margery's  Son.     12mo 1-50 

Lady  Sybil's  Choice.     12mo 1-50 

The  Maiden's  Lodge.     12mo 1-25 

"  Whether  it  is  regarded  in  its  historical  or  its  religious  aspect,  '  Isoult  Barry  of 
Wynscote '  is  the  finest  contribution  to  English  literature,  of  its  peculiar  class, 
which  has  been  made  in  the  present  century."  —  American  Baptist. 


ROBERT  CARTER  &>   BROTHERS. 


*Horne  (Thomas  Hartwell).  Introduction  to  the  Study  of  the 
Bible.     Royal  8vo.     2  vols,  in  one.     Sheep.     $5.00. 

'■  It  is  a  work  of  gigantic  labor.  The  results  of  the  research  and  erudition  of 
Biblical  scholars,  of  all  countries  and  in  all  times,  are  faithfully  garnered."  —  A\  1- 
Evangelist. 

*  Howe   (John).     Complete  Works,     2  vols.     Royal  8vo.     $5.00. 

"Possessed  of  the  learning  ofjCudworth,  the  evangelical  piety  of  Owen,  and  the 
fervor  of  Baxter,  with  a  mind  of  larger  dimensions  than  what  belonged  to  any  of 
those  distinguished  individuals,  every  thing  which  fell  from  his  pen  is  worthy 
of  immortality."  —  Orme's  Bib.  Bib 

Jacobus  (Melancthon  W.,  D.D.).  Notes,  Critical  and  Ex- 
planatory. 

Genesis.     12mo §1.50 

Matthew  and  Mark.     12mo 1-50 

Luke  and  John.     12mo 1-50 

Acts.     12mo 1-50 

Drs.  Hodge,  Green,  and  others  of  Princeton,  say:  "  The  excellent  Commentaries 
of  Dr.  Jacobus  have  deservedly  attained  a  high  reputation,  and  their  wide  circula- 
tion proves  how  well  they  are  adapted  to  the  wants  of  both  ministers  and  laymen. 
They  present,  in  a  brief  compass,  the  results  of  extensive  erudition,  abound  in  judi- 
cious exposition  and  pertinent  illustration,  and  are,  moreover,  distinguished  by 
doctrinal  soundness,  evangelical  character,  and  an  eminently  devout  spirit." 

Jay  (Rev.  William).  Morning  and  Evening  Exercises.  2  vols. 
§2.00.     The  same  in  4  vols.,  larger  type,  §5.00. 

"We  know  of  nothing  more  pure  and  Scriptural  in  sentiment,  nothing  more 

elevated  and  devotional  in  spirit,  nothing  mine  simple  and  beautiful  than  these 
retlections  on  the  lessons  from  the  Bible."  —  Christian  Observer. 

Job  (The  Book  of).  Illustrated  with  Fifty  Engravings  after 
Drawings  by  John  Gilbert.  With  Introduction,  various  Readings 
and  Notes,  by  James  Hamilton,  D.D.  Beautifully  printed  and 
bound.     §4.50. 

"The  Book  of  Job,  the  'oldest  poem  in  the  world,'  has  been  illustrated  with 
Hfty  engravings  from  drawings  by  John  Gilbert,  with  variety  and  fancy  which  he 
uas  rarely,  if  ever,  excelled,  more  especially  in  the  Eastern  character  of  the  scenery, 
and  the  characteristics  of  its  animal  life,  the  supernatural  incidents,  and  localities 
of  the  Patriarch's  life,  its  vivid  pictures  of  the  husbandman,  the  warrior,  tlio 
traveller,  the  sportsman,  the  stately  magnate,  and  the  starving  outcast  of  that 
departed  era."      Illustrated  London  News. 


8  BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY 

KittO  (John).     Bible  Illustrations.     4  vols.,  thick  12mo.     $7.00. 

"  Tliey  are  not  exactly  commentaries,  but  what  marvellous  expositions  you 
have  there!  You  have  reading  more  interesting  than  any  novel  that  was  ever  writ- 
ten, and  as  instructive  as  the  heaviest  theology.  The  matter  is  quite  attractive 
and  fascinating,  and  yet  so  weighty,  that  the  man  who  shall  study  those  volumes 
thoroughly  will  not  fail  to  read  his  Bible  intelligently  and  with  growing  interest." 
—  Sjmrgeon. 

*Lee   (William).     The   Inspiration  of    the   Holy   Scriptures:    Its 

Nature  and  Proof.    -8vo.     $2.50. 

"We  consider  'Lee  on  Inspiration'  as  beyond  all  comparison  superior  to  any 
work  on  the  subject  yet  issued  in  our  language."  —  Church  Journal. 

Leightoil  (Bishop).     Complete  Works.     8vo.     $3.00. 

"Archbishop  Leighton  stands  in  the  front  rank  of  English  theological  writers. 
His  deep  piety,  meek  Christian  spirit,  clear  perception,  and  metaphysical  acumen, 
give  him  a  place  in  which  he  stands  alone  without  a  rival.  There  is  no  English 
edition  that  equals  this  in  fulness,  or  in  the  indexes,  and  in  fact  this  leaves  nothing 
more  to  be  desired."  —  Zkm's  Herald. 

Lewis  (Prof.  Tayler).  The  Six  Days  of  Creation.  12mo.  $1.50. 
A  professor  in  one  of  our  colleges  writes :  "  Prof.  Lewis's  penetrating  insight  into 
the  conceptions  of  that  remote  age  in  which  the  Book  of  Genesis  was  written,  the 
thorough  scholarship  with  which  he  has  elucidated  these  conceptions,  and  the  vigor 
of  reasoning  with  which  he  has  shown  the  relation  of  the  Biblical  narrative  to  the 
mythology  of  the  classical  ages  —  these  things  all  combine  to  stamp  upon  the  book 
a  character  of  originality  and  profoundness  in  which  it  stands  alone  There  is  no 
other  like  it.  It  is  worth  all  else  that  has  been  written  on  the  subject.  Some  ol 
the  passages,  too,  in  which  ho  describes  the  moral  dignity  and  glory  of  the  inspired 
narrative  of  the  Bible,  are  among  the  finest  in  our  literature." 

Lord  (Willis,  D.D.).     Christian  Theology  for  the  People.     8vo. 

$2.50. 

"I  do  not  hesitate  in  expressing  the  opinion  that  this  work  is,  so  far  as  I  know, 
the  best  book  in  existence  for  the  purpose  of  popular  instruction  in  theology."  — 
Dr.  E.  P.  Humphreys. 

*Murdock    (James,   D.D.).      Mosheira's  Ecclesiastical  History. 
Translated.     3  vols.     8vo.     $5.00. 

"As  a  text-book  it  is  needed  by  all  our  theological  students,  and  should  be  in 
every  well-furnished  library.  We  are  glad  to  see  a  new  edition  of  it,  in  three  hand- 
some volumes,  on  good  paper,  and  neatly  bound  in  cloth,  at  the  very  low  price  of 
$5."  —  American  Presbyterian. 

Translation   of    Syriac   Peshito   Version   of    the   New    Testa- 

ment.    $2.50. 

"  It  is  a  book  not  only  for  the  learned,  but  for  all  who  wish  to  read  and  under- 
stand the  Scriptures." —  K.  Y.  Observer 


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